


A Fox Treads Silently

by Kaz_Langston



Series: Steel & Shadows [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Consensual Sex, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Minor Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Minor Jaskier | Dandelion/Eskel, Past Rape/Non-con, Slave Jaskier | Dandelion, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporarily mute Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 48,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26239168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: “Hundred crowns and the boy.”Geralt opened his mouth to protest but was shocked into silence at a skirmish from the corner as a man was shoved forward, stumbling into the space between the witcher and the merchant. The new arrival stared at the floor, apparently too fearful to even look at a witcher, shoulders cringing and head low.“What use have I for a boy?”Given in payment, a slave is brought to Kaer Morhen to winter with the witchers, scared and silent. Even once he’s been freed it’s a long road to recovery.
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Series: Steel & Shadows [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014918
Comments: 669
Kudos: 2060
Collections: Ships





	1. Payment

**Author's Note:**

> **Dubious consent** \- primarily it’s Jaskier not being capable of true consent, but there are a few occasions when it’s dubious all round.  
>  **Suicidal thoughts** \- seen from the outside, not explicitly discussed.  
>  **Past rape / non con** \- referred to but not described in detail.
> 
>  **SPOILERS / Content warnings in detail**  
>  **Dubious consent** \- Jaskier tries multiple times to sleep with various witchers, because of his time as a slave leaving him with some weird ideas and also being partly under a spell that makes him a little mentally fuzzy. This includes: sleeping naked with Geralt, letting Geralt stroke his cock while half asleep (and not aware it’s Jaskier in his bed), Lambert slightly coercing Jaskier into a blowjob (though nothing happens), Jaskier offering to fuck Eskel and Geralt.  
> Basically anything up to about the end of chapter 11 is dubious. You’ve been warned.  
>  **Suicidal thoughts** \- On one occasion Jaskier holds a knife to his own throat when he realises there’s no point threatening Geralt, on a second occasion Geralt finds him at the top of a wall, distressed but not actively attempting anything. Neither is discussed in detail.

Geralt lifted the threadbare bag with disdain. It was nowhere near as heavy as it should be, even accounting for the usual assumption that witchers were thick as shit and couldn't count close enough to miss a few crowns. Maybe fifty crowns, and he'd been given fifty in good faith before the job. "We said two hundred."

"I ain't got two hundred." Arms folded as he lounged back in his chair, the ugly merchant seems oddly cocky given that he was facing down two hundred pounds of monstrous muscle, somehow convinced that he'd get away with failing to uphold his side of the contract.

"What _have_ you got."

"A hundred, and you have it."

Geralt spread broad, scarred hands on the table. No need to slam them down; the strong wood creaked under his weight, and that was threat enough. Lip curled, armour-clad shoulders tense as he glowered, Geralt eased his bulk towards Mikolaj, and despite his initial bravado the man scraped his chair back, swallowing hard.

One of his comrades caught urgently at his arm, hissing in his ear. "You heard what happened two weeks south after they stiffed a Witcher? Dead, every man, woman and child!" Geralt hasn't heard that one; it certainly hadn't been him. Cat, or maybe Viper, if there was any truth to it at all.

"I haven't got it, Piotr!" Mikolaj shoved his friend away.

Piotr's fear-sweat was probably palpable to even the non-witchers in the room, sour and reeking; apparently the massacre had made an impression. All the same, Geralt couldn't find it in himself to be grateful for yet another line in the vast ledger against witchers.

"You'll have us all bloodied corpses in our beds!" He looked ready to weep, and as Geralt turned the full force of his heavy gaze on his terrified face, he flinched back as though struck. "Give him the lad, Mik!"

The suggestion wasn't much appreciated; Mikolaj jumped to his feet, shoving his taller friend again but somehow still managing to end up further from Geralt. "I'm not giving him away, I won 'im fair and square!"

"He's fucking useless! You've had your month of fun but he's dead weight, and you know we can't feed another through winter with the harvest like it is..."

He waited in threatening silence while they shout-whispered at each other, but Piotr was winning the argument and Geralt wasn't about to interfere while it looked like he might actually get some payment after all.

Eventually Mikolaj cursed and spat into the filthy rushes on the tavern floor. "Fine!" Face even uglier in resentment than it has been before, he turned to Geralt. "Hundred crowns and the boy."

Geralt opened his mouth to protest but was shocked into silence at a skirmish from the corner as a man was shoved forward, stumbling into the space between the witcher and the merchant. The new arrival stared at the floor, apparently too fearful to even look at a witcher, shoulders cringing and head low.

He was no boy, not really, too tall to still be a youth for all his slim build might suggest and a hint of dark stubble on his jaw.

His clothes were filthy, ripped and stained; his hands trembled where they twisted around each other. He stank of sweat and other more offensive things, and a bruise ringed one eye.

There was a collar around his neck, an inch wide strip of steel, bright and shining.

Geralt tore his eyes away from the sorry sight. He was no stranger to the inhumanity of humans; witchers don't hold with slavery, nor do most of the northern kingdoms. Nilfgaard's tendrils of influence were clearly far more insidious than he'd thought, to have reached so far north.

"What use have I for a boy?"

Mikolaj shrugged, back to cocky now he thought he'd got away without parting with any more hard earned coin. "Carry your bags? And he's got a good mouth on him, even if the rest of him's a little worn these days."

The lad didn't even blush at the coarse words. Either he didn't understand, or more likely he was too used to them to care.

"Fuck." Geralt bit out under his breath, resigning himself to a few more nights short of coin before he finally reached the respite of Kaer Morhen.

The merchant leered. "Oh he'll do that too, if you fancy it. We've all heard the stories about what yer wielding down there, witcher, but he'll take it without complaint."

Another muttered, "Not that you'd be much of a challenge," snickering at his own wit as Mikolaj offered a rude gesture.

He couldn't just leave the boy here, not with that defeated look in his eyes and the unveiled lust of the merchant. As soon as they're a few days from here he could send him off with some nice sympathetic human; worst comes to worst, Vesemir would know what to do.

"Hundred and the boy. But next time it'll be payment in full in advance."

"As you say, witcher."

Geralt looked at the shivering, cowering human. "Get your bags."

There was cruel laughter at that, and a shove had the lad stumbling forward until he was practically in Geralt's arms; there was a harsh crack as he tripped past Mikolaj and the man laid a heavy smack on the lad's arse. He barely reacted, instead doing his utmost to not fall on Geralt, skittering sideways to avoid touching him. Internally Geralt groaned; not only was he landed with extra weight, the lad was terrified of witchers to boot.

"He's no bags, witcher." That was Piotr, sounding far more shamefaced than his companions. But then he'd been the one to suggest offering him up in payment, to condemn him to his fate.

Gaze flat, Geralt took in the cowed form in front of him. "Nothing, lad?"

No response. Fucking hell.

The lad threw a pleading look back at Mikolaj, and Geralt could hardly blame him. Even slavery to a man was better than slavery to a witcher, and he surely couldn't know that Geralt had no intention of keeping him any longer than it took to get him well away from Mikolaj and this stinking town.

Mikolaj had seemingly already dismissed the lad, laughing at his fortune as he pulled out a pack of cards, and the young man trailed unhappily out the doorway when Geralt held it open behind him.

The night was already closing in, the autumn days short and cold, but Geralt wanted to be well clear of the place before any of the bored men in the tavern started getting any ideas about taking back the hundred crowns. Or the boy, for that matter.

Roach was still saddled outside, and she could carry the two of them for a while, although not long as there was the added weight of his winter gear and the supplies that were supposed to last him to Kaer Morhen. Supplies that would have to go twice as far now, he realised with an irritated clench of his jaw, at least until he'd seen the human off somewhere safe.

He mounted without a thought and held down a hand. The lad looked at it blankly, then back up at his face. "Take it," Geralt snapped exasperatedly, thrusting it out again. "You'll ride with me for now."

Slim fingers wrapped around his wrist, but it was Geralt's grip that did the work, hauling the man - no weight to him at all, given his height - up into the saddle between him and the reins.

He was mildly irritated to find the lad's dark and greasy hair was right in his eyeline, taller than he expected, and he had to shuffle back awkwardly to perch on the saddlebags before he could see.

Roach protested the weight and the movement with a stamp of her foot and a sideways jitter, and the tension in the man sharing the saddle had Geralt rolling his eyes again. "Grab the saddle, and stop fucking clenching your legs or you'll have us both off."

The lad did at least some of what he'd been told, either understanding or figuring out on his own that he should grip the pommel, and with a nudge they started down the street, Geralt mentally tallying how much food he had and where the best place was to dump the stray he'd somehow ended up stuck with. A handful of villages between here and Kaer Morhen, no significant towns unless he could take a diversion and already he could feel the winter drawing in, no chance of that if he wanted to make it up the trail before the snows.

The lad would just have to take his chance with one of the villages, Geralt could leave him paid up for a night at an inn and forget about him.

Satisfied with his decision, Geralt settled into Roach's steady rolling pace, ignoring the terrified tension in front of him. When tension turned into shudders he realised belatedly that the man wasn't exactly dressed for the chill outside, and tucked the ends of his cloak around the skinny body. The tension ratcheted further, and Geralt gritted his teeth that a small kindness had only scared the lad more. Such was the life of a witcher, but that didn't make it any easier.

*-*-*-*-*

When they stopped for the night a few hours later it was full dark, lit only by the haze of the new moon. Geralt dropped down first, keeping a tight grip on the reins just in case the lad tried to make a break for it, though he was fairly sure Roach wouldn't move, and offered up his other hand.

The young man didn't take it, instead lifting his leg over and sliding down with a wince and a stumble as he hit the ground. Not a rider then, or at least not recently, but from the looks of him he'd never have owned even a donkey, never mind a horse broken for riding.

He stood awkwardly to one side as Geralt untacked Roach, too used to the rhythm of making camp alone to remember he had a second pair of hands, however skinny they might be.

Once Roach was happily munching on a handful of oats scattered on the ground, and the heaviest of his armour was neatly stacked against a tree trunk, Geralt noticed the lad still standing where he'd first crept off to, resting one leg as though he was a horse.

"Collect firewood," he ordered, and the lad looked blankly in his direction. Of course - the flighty moon had cloaked herself in clouds, and to human sight the clearing must be pitch dark. He grunted in annoyance and set to it himself, collecting a handful of thick branches and lighting them with a controlled burst of Igni, not bothering with kindling. There was a skitter from beside him as the human leapt away from the sudden burst of flame, and Geralt laughed, not unkindly. "Just magic, don't panic."

He wasn't quite sure why he kept telling the lad what was going on; there was no sign he understood a word of it. Still, it was nice to have someone other than Roach to listen to him.

The firelight glinted off the collar, the only brightness to otherwise grubby skin and grey clothes, and for the first time Geralt spotted the ring where some lead could be attached. Like a dog. Fucking Nilfgaardian bullshit.

"Do you speak common tongue, boy?" No response. He tried elven, and elder, and even dwarfish, although given the man's stature that seemed like a long shot. Nothing earned him a reaction other than wary, blank eyed fear, and eventually he gave up, turning away to his bags to unclip the bedroll.

With a practiced flick of the wrist he had it laid across the flattest part of the clearing, and a fur across it. "You sleep there." Wide blue eyes stared at him, some mix of uncomprehending and defiant, but when he pointed and mimed - "You. There. Sleep." - the boy went to his knees by the mat and ran a hand reverentially across the rich fur. It was a decent pelt, from a bear he'd hunted himself and had tanned, warm enough for all but the coldest nights.

When he turned away and settled himself in the leaf litter, the bite of the cold ground immediately started to sink into his skin, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. Better for the skinny human to take the fur and the bed.

There was an enquiring little sound from behind him, and when he turned the fur was open invitingly, nervous blue eyes looking up at him.

There was only just room for two, with them both on their sides and nearer than could be considered proper, but it was tempting enough that he picked himself up and tucked himself underneath the pelt. He had to choose a side to curl into, but his new travelling companion was curled up with his back to him, so instead of spreading the blanket any wider than it had to be he tucked himself around the skinny body, keeping a narrow gap between them for the sake of decency, and for the sake of his nose, which was objecting to the olfactory assault of unwashed human, fear, and bone-deep misery.

It's only as he drifted off that he realised the lad slept naked, bar the collar, and that seemed impractical in this weather but he knew better than to question the weird habits of humans. His medallion buzzed, very faintly, against his chest.

*-*-*-*-*

Geralt woke first, sliding from the furs and stretching in the dawn light, spine cracking like dry twigs.

Prodding the fire he brought it back to life to take the chill off the morning, breaking out a handful of dry rations and a pan. The shallow river nearby, the reason he'd stopped here rather than half a mile back when the lad started sagging in his grasp, provided water for the pan, and with judicious use of igni the quick trail stew began to bubble and waft around the clearing.

The clank of the spoon as he stirred seemed to wake his companion, though he didn't make any movement other than squinting open bright blue eyes. Geralt waited until the gaze had finished flickering around the clearing and then pointed downwind. "Piss there."

The furs fell aside as the young man clambered up, clearly stiff and sore, and Geralt looked away from his nakedness. He still couldn't help but catch a glimpse of jutting collarbone and rough scrape of ribs, and he tossed another handful of dried meat in the pot. No sense in him collapsing before he could get them to a village.

When he looked back the young man was dressed in the pitiful rags he'd worn the day before, picking his way carefully through the trees to a spot distant enough that the scent wouldn't reach camp. Not for a human, anyway, and fortunately the breeze would carry the smell away from witcher senses too.

When he returned Geralt had another instruction, sending him off to the river. "If you're traveling with me you stay clean. Wash." Obediently the lad went to the water's edge, thin face openly dubious.

At first he was cautious, dipping a hand in the water and smearing it over his face before glancing back to camp, but when Geralt didn't react he grew bolder, pulling at his shirt to tug it over his head, stripping down to bare skin and edging into the water with little flinches.

Geralt looked away, keeping an ear out as the boy rinsed himself with the chill river water. He had a brief tinge of regret that he'd used the last of his soap a few days ago, but he'd figured he could do without until reaching home; one less thing to spend his meagre coin on when he'd been stiffed on the last two jobs. He gets used to his own scent after a while, content enough to rinse with water, but it would take a lot of scrubbing for the weeks of grime to be scoured from the boy's skin.

When he returned, naked and dripping and clutching his rags in one hand, Geralt blinked and threw him the shirt he'd dug out from his bags. It was far too big, draping off one thin shoulder, and the lad didn't move to put any of his own clothes back on. When he sat cross-legged in front of the fire, entirely un-self-consciousness, Geralt could see the pink tip of his cock hanging out from underneath.

Keeping his eyes high, Geralt fished out some underclothes too, which were tugged on without comment.

Washed and dressed in clean clothes the human looked less like some little street urchin and more like a young man fallen on hard times, short a few meals but otherwise suffering from no more than a bad hangover, though the silence and the look in his eyes suggested more than just a few bad weeks, and of course there was that awful collar. He might have been anywhere from twenty to thirty, pert nosed and good looking enough in a miserable, underfed sort of a way. He wasn't someone Geralt would go after at a tavern, too breakable for a tumble with a witcher, but he supposed some nice young lady might have an attraction.

The lad was pale, shivers chasing over his skin and teeth chattering as he pulled his legs close to his chest, and belatedly Geralt realised that the water must have been icy cold, too cold for a human. He'd heard a single gasp, but no more than that, and certainly no complaints. The damn man was probably courting hypothermia and hadn't even bothered putting on proper clothes. He shook his head in despair. Humans.

Deeming the stew done enough to be eaten and also hot enough to warm the lad through, he ladled it into a spare mug, offering it and the spoon.

Though he'd heard the growl of an empty stomach all morning, the boy hesitated, careful gaze taking in Geralt's face, his hand, and scanning lower too, which was disconcerting. Geralt thrust the mug out again. "Take it."

A trembling hand reached out for the mug, taking it slowly, and when Geralt looked away the boy hunched over and slurped at the thick stew. Geralt winced a little, but after the first mouthful he blew hesitatingly on it, blue eyes flickering between the stew and the witcher with every purse of his lips.

"Good," Geralt said, half to himself. "That's good."

He took his own meal, more than he'd usually bother with for breakfast without a contract lined up for the day, but a pleasant enough treat. The human finished first, but kept his eyes downcast, and with a sigh Geralt stood to start breaking camp, sliding the bowl at the lad's feet. On his second pass he dropped the fur from the bedroll over thin shoulders, and the boy jumped but then pulled it close.

When the camp was clear and everything stowed away, Geralt turned with his hands on his hips to survey his temporary travelling companion, who scrambled to his feet and stared at the floor. He was still in Geralt's spare shirt and smallclothes, and though the fur was keeping him warm enough with the lingering heat of the fire, he'd be frozen as soon as they started riding.

Digging out the soft linen trousers he occasionally slept in, Geralt threw them gently at the human. His reactions were slow; he fumbled the catch but just about managed to stop them hitting the floor. Like the shirt and the smallclothes they were far too big, the right length but gaping at the waist until he tied them closed, but they'd do a turn.

Geralt mounted up as the lad nudged his feet into worn but serviceable boots and tucked the too-big trousers inside, then held out a hand as he'd done the day before. The lad offered up his rags, and Geralt was torn - they were barely enough to be called clothes, but he didn't want to demand they get left behind when they were all the man had. Eventually he sighed, and flipped open one of the saddlebags. "Here."

Filthy clothes stowed away, the lad took his hand. This time Geralt swung him up behind; let him have the uncomfortable seat on the saddlebags, and he could tuck the fur around his shoulders like some warrior.

He realised his mistake immediately; his crotch was pressed far too close to the pommel of the saddle, and if Roach so much as baulked he was going to find himself at risk of castration. Still, at least his nose wasn't buried in filthy hair, though it did look much cleaner after the dunk in the icy river, slowly drying in the cold air into soft brown curls. Slender thighs rested against his, and he had a brief but guilty sense memory of his last time in Toussaint, when the slim legs around him had belonged to a stableboy who very much believed in fucking where he worked. He shook the thought off firmly.

They set off towards the next village, and after about a half hour there was squirming behind him. "What are you doing? Stop that." The lad took no notice, so Geralt slapped at his leg to get his attention, and the fussing subsided.


	2. Kaer Morhen

At lunch Geralt stopped to dig out bread and cheese, both of them walking alongside to give Roach a rest as the lad inhaled the food without a word.

He hadn't said a single thing so far, nor made any noise other than the invitation to join him in bed, and Geralt wondered briefly if it was some impairment, ears or tongue or both, or whether he was just scared stiff of his new master. It didn't really matter, and he was used to silence on the path, so he didn't bother asking questions or doing anything other than issuing the simplest of instructions, trying not to inhale too much of the sour fear-scent.

As dinner approached so did the village, but they received far more foul looks than he was willing to risk, even this close to Kaer Morhen, so he nudged Roach through without stopping. It had become more common since the sacking of the keep, and he'd contributed his own tales to anti-witcher rhetoric, so he could hardly blame them for their hatred. It would have to be another night on the road.

They stopped a mile or two out, around a bend in the road so they wouldn't be seen but near enough he could still hear the sounds of the village if he strained, just in case they decided to chase him off further.

He set up camp again and this time the lad at least attempted to help, plucking firewood from the ground and dumping it in a haphazard pile while the witcher untacked Roach.

When the fire was roaring Geralt turned to the boy, who was watching him warily from across the campfire, pale in the firelight. The plan was to send him off, back to the village with a handful of coin in his pocket, and move on without a second thought, but Geralt looked at him, shivering in the cheap spare shirt under the fur; looked at the heavy clouds threatening snow. Looked at the miserable blue eyes.

He couldn't send the boy off. Even if he survived the walk to the village he wouldn't get far, and that was if they took him in at all. And Geralt had neither the coin nor the gear to spare.

He cursed; the boy flinched.

Freshly guilty on top of frustrated, he pulled out more trail rations and set up for the same meal they had eaten that morning, ignoring his companion until it was ready to eat. The lad again took it cautiously, blew on it and ate it as though it was from the finest royal table and at any minute Geralt might snatch it away.

Once the bowl was scraped clean, Geralt took it and stacked it aside to be washed. As his back was turned there was a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he spun to see the young man on his feet, the spare dagger Geralt always kept buried in his saddlebags gripped in one trembling hand.

He held out the knife as though it was much larger than it was, as though it was a sword despite only being maybe five inches long, and Geralt eased back just a little to give him space, wary but unconcerned.

"You won't do much damage with that, lad." He could hear the indulgence in his voice. Maybe he'd spent too much time with Vesemir. "I'm a witcher, or hadn't you noticed?"

The sharp blue gaze flickered from Geralt's hands, where they rested easy by his sides, up to his monstrous yellow eyes, and then around the clearing again where the firelight kept the encroaching night at bay.

"Put it down, don't want you hurting yourself."

And that was most certainly the wrong thing to say because in an instant the dagger was at the lad's throat, by luck or design right over that thick artery thundering with lifeblood.

Geralt couldn't help but cry out a denial as he leapt forward, but aborted his movement at the hard look. Across the clearing he could see the man close his eyes and swallow, see the bobbing of his throat and the thin trickle of blood where the well-sharpened blade dug in, and from the juddering tension in his forearm Geralt could see he had every intent of going through with the ill-conceived plan.

The twitch of scarred fingers didn't stir him, but after that a low instruction had the knife tumbling from obedient fingers.

Heart pounding in a way it shouldn't, Geralt staggered across the clearing, snatching the knife from the ground and tucking it away safely. The lad still stood with his throat bared as though expecting some killing stroke, and the sight of it made him queasy.

"Sit." The human folded down neatly at his instruction; heavy eyelids drifted open, though they were dazed and distant.

From his saddlebags Geralt dragged out the spare pair of reins, tough leather still in need of breaking in. They wouldn't work for what he wanted, but once he switched them for the old ones draped over the abandoned saddle he had a much more appropriate binding.

"Hold out your wrists."

Long fingered hands were presented with perfect obedience, and Geralt bound them deftly.

"On the bedroll. Sleep."

Once the young man's face was slack in sleep, carefully tucked under thick furs, Geralt lifted the Axii command and settled into meditation near the fire, alert for any sound.

The ground was cold. Sharing the bedroll had been much more comfortable.

*-*-*-*-*

He woke to a resigned gaze, though it darted away at almost the same instant he made eye contact.

"If I release you, will you run?"

There's a brief moment of hesitation before thin shoulders slumped in resignation, and the youth shook his head.

Fingers stiff with cold Geralt undid the leather bindings, frowning in concentration where a particular twist had caught another into a snarl.

When the man was free there were tide marks on his skin where the old reins had rubbed at him, horse sweat and horse hair and roughened skin where he had clearly struggled against them silently before Geralt awoke. There were other marks underneath the dirt, pink and white scars that spoke of other restraints, more harsh than tack leather.

"You can go back to that village, though I doubt you'll get a warm welcome this close to the snows if you don't bring supplies, and I can't do anything about your collar. Or you can come with me. Stay with my brothers over winter. We'll see you right in spring."

Thoughts lay heavy on the thin face, doubt and suspicion featuring most, but the human made no move to leave.

"Good. Then no more stealing weapons, or anything else, understand?"

He didn't get a response but hopefully that meant agreement.

Before they mounted up Geralt rummaged in his bags again, finding a shirt that was ripped but otherwise clean enough, one he'd planned to mend over the winter. With barely a strain he tugged it apart across the chest until the dark grey fabric lay in two pieces, one of them the full arm span.

"Come here." The boy didn't move.

Exasperated Geralt went to him instead, and though he didn't move far there was the faintest line to his body that suggested that he was leaning away, nothing really, and Geralt could hear the heart rate spiking. Gently, as though trying not to spook some skittish animal, Geralt draped the makeshift scarf around the lad's neck, making sure every glimmer of metal was safely hidden.

He mentally committed to getting the damn collar off as soon as fucking possible once they reached Kaer Morhen; there was something slightly magical about either it or the boy, and he disliked like having stray magic hanging round any more than necessary. Plus, even the sight of it was a nasty reminder that he was given the man as a slave, as _payment_ , and everything about that sat uneasy on his shoulders.

"There." It wasn't fashionable, but it would do the job, warmth and a disguise both.

He turned away to mount up, and the lad touched two fingers reverentially at the rough material wrapped so carefully around his neck.

*-*-*-*-*

"Geralt!"

The cry echoed off the battlements, and there was a sudden burst of activity, the smaller door at the side of the keep swinging open.

He was days later than he normally would be, and it was nice to know he wasn't the first back, to know that there was a fire burning in the hall and another one already laid in his room. It was with no little relief that he embraced his brother with a dull thud of leather against leather as broad chests met. "Eskel. Good to see you."

"And you, wolf."

After a moment of silence where they both breathed in each other's scent, nostrils flaring, Eskel leant back. Hands wrapped around Geralt's biceps he held him steady to check for visible new wounds, and then tilted to one side to peer around him. "You brought a companion."

He sounded surprised, and that was fair enough - Geralt had never brought anyone back to Kaer Morhen, not once in all the time they've been on the Path.

Geralt grunted unhappily. "Not by choice."

"He follow you up here, did he?" Eskel quirked an amused eyebrow, the movement tugging at the knotted pink flesh at his temple where claws had rent the skin, the scars twisting down his cheek and lip.

Geralt turned to look at his shadow. "Something like that."

The man made himself, if possible, even smaller. Such a skinny creature pursue Geralt up the long, winding trail, with its treacherous rock and stomach turning heights? It seemed unlikely.

"Lets get inside. Don't want him collapsing again."

"Again, hmm?" Eskel slung his arm round Geralt's shoulders as he led Roach through the doorway, heading for the barn. "You'll have to tell me all your stories once we've cracked open the ale."

The human trailed in their wake, silent. Eskel looked back at him once, and he cringed under the yellow-eyed gaze. Geralt shook his head. "Long fucking story."

After giving Roach what she'd earned, they retired to the kitchen, Geralt's bags and contributions to the winter supplies piled at their feet as the witchers dug out fresh bread and cheese. Geralt sawed off a large chunk of each, and a smaller portion for the lad, who took it warily and crept away to a corner to eat in quick snatched bites.

When he'd finished eating, and the sharp blue gaze was starting to scan around the room, taking in the tables meant for a dozen cooks and the vast fireplaces which, bar one holding a fire and cook pot, lay empty, Geralt beckoned him over. He still wore the scarf, though he left the fur puddled over the stool where he'd perched.

Hands firm but gentle, Geralt unwound the scarf and gestured at the collar. "Look."

Eskel frowned and looked closer, running a finger around the seamless edge. "Oh that does look attached."

In front of them, the lad's heart rate was rising and rising, as though he was climbing the stairs to the highest room of the north tower, his breath coming in swift light huffs as his eyes all but rolled in fear. His fingers tangled together as though trying to hold himself in place.

Taking pity on him, Eskel moved away, shaking his head. "I think it's one for Vesemir, he'll have something in the library. He's holed up there now, not sure if we'll see him before dinner."

Geralt sighed. "Let's just hope it's not designed to have him kill us in our sleep."

They both looked at the skinny human where he was staring at his feet, apparently oblivious to their scrutiny.

"Fairly unlikely, I'd say," Eskel said.

Geralt grunted in agreement. "We'll find a use for him."

Though he stood by the fire, the man shivered.


	3. Vesemir

Geralt led the way up to his bedroom, feet near-silent on the familiar stone floors, the human trotting in his wake with the lightest of the bags in his hands.

It was more of a relief than usual to walk through the familiar doorway into his room. The armour and weaponry racks waited for his gear, fresh rags folded beside them for the thorough clean they would receive after his year on the path; bookshelves were wiped clear of any dust, even the few trinkets left pristine, and the desk was equipped with a fresh quill - griffin feather no less, perfectly suited to a witcher's large hand - and a new pot of ink, still sealed with a cork.

The bedclothes were freshly changed too, blankets and a handful of furs heaped on the wide bed ready for the cold nights to come, and the whole room smelled of the cold, fresh mountain air.

_Home._

He set the bags down with a sigh, but then almost jumped out of his skin at a second thump behind him as the lad dropped his burden on the ground. Gruff with embarrassment, he opened the bags and started to unpack, not looking up.

"There's no room made up for you. You stay with me tonight."

There was no comment, though he wasn't expecting one.

Technically Lambert's room was still free, but they all knew the pleasure each of them took in returning to their rooms as they were left, with only the lightest of touches to clean them, and it felt wrong to take that away. Some small, superstitious part of him felt, too, that it would be like expecting the youngest of his brothers not to come home to take the space.

No, the lad would stay with him, and he'd have a room cleared out tomorrow. It wasn't as though they had any shortage of them.

By the time everything was stowed away, neatly tucked into drawers or hung on wooden racks, Geralt's belly was informing him it was time for a taste of Vesemir's stew, likely generously seasoned and simmering for hours. In the kitchen it had smelled rich and meaty, perfect fare for a witcher's welcome home.

Shirt-scarf abandoned on the bed but a fur tucked around his shoulders, the lad followed him down to the kitchen, looking about with curiosity, although each time Geralt looked directly at him he feigned disinterest and a vague servility, cringing away a little as though expecting a blow.

"Vesemir," Geralt said with feeling, at the sight of the grey-haired witcher bent over the pot, spoon in hand as he tasted the stew.

Setting the spoon on a nearby table, Vesemir greeted him with open arms. "Geralt." His voice too was filled with affection, and Geralt held him tight.

"And who's this?" He peered at the human, who had tucked himself unobtrusively in a corner. "You brought a - friend?"

"Mm." Geralt shook his head. "He was a... last minute decision."

Vesemir frowned, taking a few steps towards the lad, who shrank down into the shadows at his approach. His expression darkened as he registered the collar.

"A slave? I thought you were taught better than that."

"Given in payment, and I couldn't leave him there."

Vesemir's face softened. "Aye, that's the right of it. Is he well?

A sudden faint pang of alarm tugged at Geralt's belly, and he hesitated for a moment. "He kept up well enough for the last week... Passed out on the trail once, but picked up well enough after food."

Vesemir shook his head. "He's in a sorry state." Turning his attention away from Geralt, he addressed the boy. "Do you have any pain?"

"He doesn't speak."

"Hmm. The collar, I'd wager, though we'll check." He reached out but the lad flinched back, blue eyes wide and wounded in his thin face, one hand lifted as though to fend him off. With a sigh Vesemir beckoned Geralt forward. "He might trust you more."

Geralt had received and seen enough injuries to know what a body should feel like, and what it shouldn't, and he mentally kicked himself for not checking before dragging the lad up the trail. Who knows what damage he'd accidentally done, if that black eye had been only part of it.

First under his scrutiny was the handsomely sculpted face, brushing aside the dark hair to test the occipital bone where the bruise had faded to a faint green tinge. Nothing shifted under his touch, and nor did the bridge of the nose, the unwrinkled brow.

Warily, he cupped a hand around the jaw, now with enough days of stubble to disguise the line of it, and pulled down gently to encourage the boy to open.

"If you bite me, you won't like the result."

It seemed a needless caution, for the lad opened obediently under his grip, eyes roaming the ceiling as Geralt slipped a broad finger inside.

He ran it around the inside of his mouth, testing gums and teeth alike with a brusque and functional touch. One tooth was missing, another handful loose under his touch, and he reported as such to Vesemir.

"Likely malnutrition. He's underfed, we can see that. They'll firm up or fall out, not much to be done, but as long as there's no heat in the gum he'll do well enough."

Wiping his finger on his trousers - they'd seen far more than spit in their time - Geralt motioned the lad towards the fire. No sense in him being cold for this, adding misery to the whole thing. "Shirt off." The youth blinked at him, easing towards the fire but not otherwise responding. Geralt plucked at the base of the shirt, lifting it up over the thin belly. "Off."

Gaze resigned and miserable, the boy pulled the shirt over his head with an easy sinuous movement that looked like something that belonged in a brothel, not a drafty too-large kitchen in a dark halled keep.

He'd slept naked each night on the trail, back turned to the witcher as it had been that first night, but Geralt had taken pains not to stare too closely. Now, though, he looked his fill, taking in the narrow waist, the exposed ribs and collar bones no more padded than when he'd first seen them, and the handful of marks littering the thin body.

A long scar curled over the meat of his shoulder to bisect one collar bone, and Geralt followed it around to the lad's back where a mess of lines told the tale of past floggings, perhaps a whipping. Geralt let out a low unhappy hum at the sight. "Bad as a witcher."

"Without the pain tolerance," Vesemir said grimly.

Geralt touched the damaged skin across his shoulder blades and the lad flinched, once, before forcing himself still. Vertebrae stuck out, a mountain range under his skin, curled a little where his shoulders hunched in on themselves, diminishing the lad's height. Stood straight he'd likely be all but eye to eye with the witchers.

Gently, but firm enough not to tickle, Geralt spread his fingers and felt along each rib all the way from spine to sternum, noting the occasional bump indicating a past break but nothing fresh, no loose end that might shift and stab inside. Beneath his hands he could feel the heart racing, but the human didn't move, though whether that was obedience or terror - likely some mixture of both - Geralt couldn't tell.

The collarbone too bore a knot of bone, right under the scar perforating it. "Whip?" Geralt asked Vesemir, and the older witcher nodded grimly.

"Aye, or a switch. Someone too heavy handed. Letting it flick round like that, that's cruelty."

Arms next, a cursory stroke down each showing no damage other than pink burn marks beneath each elbow, where they might be rested on a surface. The fingers too were unbroken, though Geralt frowned at the calluses on the left hand and held it out for Vesemir's inspection.

The lad's eyes rolled, and the reek of fear spiked in the room, but the witchers ignored it. Human fear of witchers was nothing new.

"Odd," Vesemir said, inspecting the calluses closely. "I don't know these from a weapon or farmwork, not that he looks much good for manual work. Might be if we fed him up a bit, he's a good frame on him."

When he let go of the lad's hand it was snatched away, and there was that nervous movement again. "He's rubbing the calluses," Geralt realised. The movement stopped in an instant, but the lad determinedly stared at the ground.

The witchers exchanged looks, but didn't comment.

Geralt stooped and handed him back the shirt, which was tugged on with alacrity. "His legs..."

"Let him keep a little of his dignity. Just roll up what you can. And his genitals are his own business."

Vesemir waited for Geralt to finish up, a handful of those healed bone knots on the shins making him pause, but again nothing more current. When he was done, the lad was shuddering with tension, wringing his hands together as a muscle jumped in his stubbled jaw.

With a heavy sigh the older witcher said softly, "If he's been used as you say, there may be other damage."

Geralt recoiled. "I'm not checking-"

"Calm yourself. We can give him a salve, if you think he'll follow instructions. It'll soothe any lingering pain."

"He understands well enough, I think. Make it, he can choose to use it or not."

Vesemir nodded. "In the meantime, dinner is ready. He needs feeding up, and so do you."

"Lean year."

"Well, we all have them."

They settled at the table, the lad at Geralt's side and Vesemir's place laid at the head. As Vesemir served up bowls of hearty stew and bread, Eskel strolled in to take his own place. Geralt caught him on the way past, patting his back.

"The quill is very fine, Eskel. Thank you."

Eskel grinned, ducking his head at the praise. "Landed four this year. Two juveniles in spring, and a mating pair a few weeks back."

Impressed, Geralt shook his head. Griffins were good money, an indisputably heroic feat that led even the most stingy of aldermen to pay up and a half dozen parts that could be sold or used. He'd not seen one this year.

The last bowl was pushed towards Eskel, and the three witchers dug in with gusto. The lad waited for a moment, but when no one paid him any attention he too started on the stew. After the first mouthful he put down the spoon with a thud, a pleased hum escaping him. "Good?" Eskel said wryly, and the lad nodded eagerly. "Vesemir's a good cook."

"Had a century to get used to it," Vesemir grumbled, obviously pleased by the praise.

Geralt didn't say anything, but as the boy went back to eating with fervor he held on to the small pleased feeling in his chest that they'd finally achieved some positive communication, after more than a week.

They'd barely finished the food before the lad was yawning, the arduous path up the trail clearly having taken its toll. Geralt was surprised he'd lasted as long as he had.

"Bed," Geralt told him, then looked at the others. "I'll see him sorted then be down for ale, I want to hear more about these griffins."

"Lad," Vesemir called, as he hovered in the doorway, "Everyone has their chores. Tomorrow you'll be with me in the kitchen."

Geralt frowned. "Watch him with the knives," he warned Vesemir softly. "Count them, before he leaves."

Vesemir laughed. "A pup like that, he'll need more than a little kitchen knife to damage a witcher."

"It's not us I'm worried about."

Vesemir's lined face dropped, and he shook his head. "Poor lad. I'll watch him, don't you fret."

With a sharp nod Geralt strode away.

Covering his mouth as he yawned again, the lad obediently trotted after him, leaving Eskel with the dishes.

*-*-*-*-*

Geralt showed the lad up to his room again, the winding route not one he'd have learned from just the one trip, and lit the fire. That was another thing that had changed; he no longer jumped at the flash of flame, instead just embracing the instant warmth.

"Stay here," Geralt told him firmly. "You'll get lost, and I'll have to track you down, and that's a pain. Chamber pot's there, I'll be back later."

Big blue eyes watched him, shadowed with fatigue, and Geralt felt a pang of guilt at leaving him. "Get to bed."

The lad perched on the edge of the bed, looking surprised at its softness, and when Geralt pulled the door closed he was already tugging at his clothes.


	4. First Day

Geralt hadn't closed the shutters the night before and the sharp morning sunlight spilling over his face made him groan. The low pounding in his head was obnoxious, a steady thud in time with his pulse that spoke of too much white gull and not enough water. The usual complaint of a first night back in Kaer Morhen, but that never made it any more pleasant.

Hiding his face from the sun, the soft hair brushing his face was a welcome shield, and he curled closer to the warm body, the arm slung over their waist pulling them in tight.

It was another half hour before witcher healing banished enough of the headache that his sleep-clumsy arm started to wander, stroking the body he was so tightly curled against, finding soft skin over harsh bone as he felt from the thin, well-haired chest, down a flat belly and through a thatch of pubic hair, to find a cock greeting the morning with enthusiasm.

With a low hum, he nosed at the thin shoulder, pressing gentle kisses to the hollow where it turned into neck, and wrapped his hand around the cock, rolling his own insistent erection against the enticing curve of buttocks pressed so cosily against him.

There was a low, sweet moan as he swept his hand the length of the cock, smearing his thumb over the pre-come already beading at the tip, and he couldn't help a smile as his kisses found an edge, sharp teeth nipping at soft flesh to draw out something that sounded like a whimper.

As slim hips rutted against his hand and back against him, Geralt let his eyes squint open against the sun, met with dark curls and the metallic glint of a collar.

"Fuck!" he yelped, and threw himself off the bed, landing in a tangle of bedsheets and furs most unbecoming of a witcher.

In the now cover-less bed, the lad sat up with an enquiring face, stark naked and with his cock sitting proudly red between thin legs, as unselfconscious as he'd been on the path. His face was rumpled with sleep, a red mark from the pillow striping one cheek, and he looked far too young and vulnerable to be gracing a witcher's bed.

"I'm too hungover for this shit," Geralt informed him.

Pulling on his trousers he grabbed a shirt and made for the door. He'd go recover in the hot springs, a soak would do him good.

Behind him, the lad slumped and lay back, face confused and conflicted, before rolling over for a second attempt at a lie-in.

*-*-*-*-*

When Geralt finally accepted that he had failed to drown himself in the springs, he dragged himself miserably to the kitchen. He was the last to arrive, but neither of the others were in a much better state, Eskel looking positively green.

He helped himself to bread in silence, pinching chunks off it unhappily and chewing them until they disintegrated into nothing in his mouth. Vesemir stared into the distance, and after a while Geralt half convinced himself the older witcher was sleeping with his eyes open, though when light footsteps announced the entry of their guest he was quick enough to look over.

The lad glanced at Geralt, looking almost sheepish, and Geralt somehow managed to keep the scowl from his face at the thought that the man he'd so carelessly groped would feel guilty for it.

The metal was bright around his neck. "I want that collar off him," he bit out.

Vesemir grunted, but beckoned the lad over. He went without complaint, though his eyes flickered to the loaf of bread resting on the side; Geralt cut him a chunk, placing it in his waiting hands. He ate quickly as Vesemir inspected the collar, running a finger around it much as Eskel had done to check the seamless design.

The ring on it, so obviously designed for some form of lead or chain, was the only blemish in its surface, and Vesemir tugged at it thoughtfully.

The bread hit the floor and barely an instant later so did the lad's knees, his head bowed subserviently, and had the witchers been men all three of them might have jumped.

Instead they stared in silence before Geralt, face paler than normal, reached down to him to wrap a hand around his elbow and the other around his shoulder, all but lifting him to his feet.

Hands impossibly gentle, he curled a finger under the lad's chin, tilting his face up to look him square in the eye. "You will not do that here. Do you understand?"

There was a long moment of silence, the lad's eyes flickering between Geralt's pupils, so close were their faces. Eventually, slowly, he nodded, and Geralt let go of him with something that felt like relief.

Eskel spoke into the silence as Geralt cut another wedge of bread, dropping the one that had hit the floor into the scrap bucket for the animals. "Do you think you can remove it?"

"It'd be easy enough if he's dead. Not so easy if we want him alive."

Geralt frowned. "But you can do it?"

"I believe so, though I want to research a little first." He touched his medallion pointedly. "Eskel, I'll likely need your help, there may be more to it than meets the eye."

"Of course." The scarred witcher glanced over at the lad where he was polishing off the bread. "Anything I can do to help."

They sat about the kitchen until it became apparent they were all too hungover to bother with morning chores, and Vesemir dismissed them with a lazy wave and a warning that they would pick up after lunch.

The scent of unwashed human was grating on Geralt's nose, particularly after he'd taken his own bath; both Eskel and Vesemir were bathing regularly as they were all wont to do over winter.

Instead of taking them back to his room, he dropped by the linen closet, pulling out spare sheets and furs as the lad shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, then marching to a corridor a few turns away from Geralt's own room. When they entered the room was dark and stale, but after opening the shutters and the window the weak winter sun illuminated a sparse and tidy space, filled with much the same furnishings as Geralt's own room. He dropped the sheets on the bed. "This is yours. Tidy, messy, whatever, this isn't a school, do what you want. We'll get firewood later."

He left the door open and the lad followed him, throwing a longing glance back at the room. His disappointment at leaving his new abode was quickly forgotten as Geralt showed him through to the hot springs, the great cavern below the keep where generations upon generations of witchers had bathed in the mountain's waters, heated by natural sources to near boiling.

It was lit by tiny magelights captured in smoky glass bottles and tucked into recesses, giving it a softly warm glow, slightly too dark where a few of them had faded into nothing. Waterfalls trickled down from each pool to the next, filling the low ceilinged room with the constant pleasing sound of moving water.

He took the steps down to the pools, pointing out how they were too hot at the very top for humans, and pointing very clearly to the lad which pool the mages and few humans that had visited Kaer Morhen had preferred. Big enough to sit five men across, it was one of the largest, with only the outflow pool at the bottom noticeably bigger.

"Clothes there," he said, pointing to the ledge, but before he could turn to point out where the soaps and oils were kept the lad was already stripping down to his smalls and then nothing, almost skipping up the steps to lower himself in. He let out a moan almost as filthy as the one Geralt had unintentionally drawn from him that morning, and dunked his whole body under the water.

Lounging back against the wall, Geralt watched the lad's unfettered enjoyment with a tiny smile tugging at his lips. After so many days of silent trudging and drawn expressions, it was good to see there was still life in him.

After many minutes the lad stopped his play long enough to rest his arms on the edge of the pool, kneeling on the seat cut out of the stone and staring at Geralt. He raised his eyebrows in an expression that said very clearly, aren't you getting in?

Mind flashing guiltily back to his morning wake up, Geralt shook his head. "I bathed earlier. There are soaps, if you want them."

That was met with yet more delight, and a skinny, slippery body hauled itself from the bath, clearly looking for the trove of bathing products.

The vast supplies the springs had once boasted were much reduced, but there were still dozens of different products, oils and salts and soaps from the continent over. Slim fingers reached, and when his glance at Geralt went without comment he started to touch, picking up soaps and uncorking bottles to sniff the contents.

As he rummaged through the supplies, dripping on the floor without a care, Geralt was bemused to hear the odd hum of delight, happy little noises made under the lad's breath and apparently without thought.

Eventually he settled on a product, some bergamot soap Geralt seemed to remember Lambert bringing back, all fresh citrus and subtle spice, and looked inquiringly again at Geralt as he held it up.

Geralt shook his head, and the utter despondency on the thin face made his gut wrench as he hurried to correct himself. "No need to ask, anything here is yours. This is your home for now."

The young man turned his face away, and when he looked back Geralt was shocked and a little horrified to see tears in his eyes. The witcher lifted a hand to dash them away, or perhaps just to rest a hand on his shoulder, though he aborted the gesture at a flinch.

Very deliberately the lad met Geralt's gaze; with a pointed glance down at the soap he cradled it tighter to his bare chest, as though it was the most precious thing in the world, an obvious gesture of gratitude. After a second, he nodded, as though convinced his message had got through, and then hurried back to the pool where he leapt in with as much enjoyment as he had the first time.

Something small and warm in Geralt's chest preened, just a little.

He dozed for a while, soothed by the familiar susurrus of splashing water, but eventually hauled himself upright and tracked down a towel, thrusting it at the lad where he was lounging, relaxation in every line of his skinny body, at the side of the pool. "Time for lunch," he said. "And chores."

There was a hint of reluctance in the thin face, but no real hesitation, obedience more important than even the temptation of hot water and soap.

Before they left, he steered the lad to the basins, handing him a small mirror and a sharp knife. Geralt didn't take his eyes off him as he obligingly smeared the soap across his face and took a blade to his skin, scraping off what must be a couple of weeks of beard growth to reveal smooth, unmarked skin. The knife went back in Geralt's pocket, the mirror back on the shelf.

Dried off and smelling of bergamot, the lad followed him back to the kitchen, a familiar shadow.

Vesemir, looking much merrier than he had at breakfast, was busy wielding a butcher's knife over a leg of what was probably mutton, a heap of potatoes and other vegetables next to him.

Putting down the knife, he dug in a pocket and handed the lad a small pot of salve, with strict instructions to use it liberally anywhere it hurt. "It's safe wherever you put it, just don't shove the whole lot in your mouth at once."

He opened it, sniffed it and jerked back - admittedly it was pungent, lemony moonflower oil mixed with acrid willowbark and a half dozen herbs to reduce pain and inflammation and promote healing - but eyed it with curiosity, and nodded obediently before tucking it in his pocket.

After more bread, along with cheese and a chunk of boiled ham, Geralt was sent out to assist Eskel with reinforcing the paddock fencing, leaving the human in Vesemir's capable hands.

He wasn't sure what state their dinner would be in when they returned, given the look on the lad's face when Vesemir had plonked him in front of the potatoes and given him a paring knife, but he'd eaten some truly awful things in his time, so one meal with shoddily chopped vegetables wouldn't kill him.

Despite his fears, the meal was as good as the one Vesemir had supplied the night before, once again finished with the lad's eyes drifting closed. When one overly-long blink had him swaying forward, jerking back upright with a start, Vesemir drew his attention. "You don't need to eat with us, not at any of the meals, though do try to join for dinner. Just help yourself to food. Come to me after lunch and I'll give you a chore, and don't touch anything you don't recognise. Otherwise you're your own man here. Understood?"

Still heavy lidded, the lad nodded.

"Alright. Off to bed, then."


	5. Lambert

Outside of dinner, Geralt didn't see hide nor hair of the boy for the next few days. If it wasn't for witcher senses picking up the faint scent of lemony salve and bergamot soap and human in the kitchen each morning, and the quiet but enthusiastic participation in each evening meal, he would be concerned that he'd run into trouble in some obscure corner of the tumbledown keep.

As it was, Vesemir assured him that he was assisting in kitchen chores, and wasn't averse to stealing a bit of raw carrot as he prepared it, or a handful of dried figs if he thought Vesemir was out of earshot. Much to Geralt's relief there was no issue with the knife, bar one careless incident that required the lightest of bandages.

The day after Geralt showed him where they kept spare clothes - a room safely away from regular routes, for many of the clothes still held a little scent of their previous owners, and it was... unsettling, to unexpectedly pick up the scent of a long-dead brother - the lad appeared at dinner in something entirely impractical, mostly silk and embroidered details and frippery. Vesemir had taken one look and raised his eyes to the heavens, but if the lad wanted a little colour in the grey keep, so be it. After all, the clothes would never have fit the bulk of an adult witcher, nor their tastes, usually being some eye wateringly vivid - and undoubtedly expensive - piece that could only have been worn by the mages. Anything overly memorable had been burned in the courtyard long ago, and Lambert had been particularly liberal in how much he'd resigned to the pyre.

Each day the boy appeared scrubbed freshly clean, though whether by accident or design their paths didn't cross in the baths, and he'd taken to wearing the shirt-scarf again, covering the collar. One day Geralt noticed it had been cut to remove the cuffs, and the next the edges had been neatly hemmed with a rich green strip that gave the lad's blue eyes a sea-green depth. If he hadn't known there was a metal band beneath it, it might have almost been stylish.

Between the better-fitting clothes, the flashes of colour, and the gradual filling in of gaunt cheeks, he looked far brighter than he had when they arrived; still strained and flighty, but better.

While Vesemir combed the library each morning for information on slaves, or magical collars, to little result, the two younger witchers would head outside to do the tasks that needed completing before the snows arrived. As the days wore on, the two of them kept shooting glances at the path where Lambert should be appearing, though neither of them mentioned his absence.

They were midway through reinforcing the barn roof when Eskel's shout echoed around the courtyard. "Lambert!"

"Eskel!" Lambert hollered back, sounding delighted.

The wrong side of the roof to see their brother arrive, Geralt leapt to the apex in two great strides, only to see Eskel already bounding across the courtyard. With a growl he threw himself forwards, racing to catch up, but as soon as Eskel realised he was being pursued he put on his own burst of speed, arriving at the door with plenty of time to skid to a halt before Geralt slammed into him, knocking him against the stone wall.

Pushing and shoving, all elbows and knees, they managed to get the door open. With a judicious Aard that took Geralt out at the knees, Eskel gained the upper footing, throwing himself at Lambert first for a wide armed hug.

Unimpressed, Geralt lunged at the two of them, bringing them down in a tumble.

They lay there for a moment before breaking into wheezing laughter.

"I've been here two fucking minutes and already I think I've broken something, you pricks." Lambert pounded his hands on their backs, gleeful and rough, then hauled them both close in a clumsy hug. "Too early to crack open the wine?"

Eskel looked at the sky briefly, then shook his head. "It'll hold until tomorrow, let's do it. But ugh, you reek, you roll in something on your way up?"

"Fucking Zeugl a few weeks back, can't get the fucking stench out of my pits, or my armour."

"I'm chucking you in the springs before we go anywhere near wine."

Geralt peeled himself from the pile first, giving a hand to first Eskel and then Lambert, clapping him on the back once again.

"Thought you might not be coming," he said gruffly.

"What, miss a winter in this miserable heap of stones?" Lambert made a rude noise, shoving a saddle bag at the whitehaired witcher, not waiting to reach the stable before unloading.

Eskel took the next bag. "Aiden give you the push?"

"Fuck you, Eskel."

"Oh he did, then!"

The next bag hit Eskel's chest with more force.

"He's spending it with the Cats," Lambert snapped, scowling furiously, and didn't look either of them in the eye as he untacked his horse and threw a handful of feed in her trough. "Where's that fucking wine?"

*-*-*-*-*

Lambert took his time in the springs, likely wanking himself half blind between rounds of scrubbing away the stench of monster, and the three of them were rowdy and well-soused by the time Vesemir interrupted them in the common room to announce that dinner was ready, giving the two older witchers a slightly judgmental look but clearly deciding against a lecture.

The lad was already in his usual seat, and as Geralt sat beside him Lambert stared in naked curiosity. Pale cheeks started to redden, his gaze shifting to the table surface, and Eskel kicked the young witcher under the table.

"No one teach you it's rude to stare?" Geralt growled out, the warmth of the wine suddenly sitting heavy in his stomach.

"Not staring," Lambert said, and bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. "I'm _looking_.

"Stop looking, then!"

Beside him the boy flinched at the raised voice, and Geralt forced himself to still. "It's a long story. Just leave him alone."

Lambert shrugged, and turned his attention to the heavy beef stew.

*-*-*-*-*

Despite trading barbs, as Lambert and Geralt always did when they first met after eight months apart, forgetting how much they could annoy each other, the three younger witchers returned to the common room and swapped the bottles of honeyed wine for white gull, drinking it at a rate that would have had Vesemir wincing if he hadn't already retired for the evening.

Their shouts reached the rafters as they swapped stories, each more outlandish than the last, and it was well past midnight before Geralt abandoned the other two and staggered up to bed, his face sore with laughter.

There was a heartbeat in his room, one that didn't belong there, and he flung the door open only to find a familiar tousled head poking out from his blanket. He'd thought they'd solved this days ago.

"Boy. What are you doing?" His drunken exasperation was met with a slow smile and a coquettish look from under dark lashes.

With a roll of his eyes that made the room spin he strode over, heaving the blanket up and throwing it back, only to freeze at the sight beneath.

Near naked, cock a ruddy column between his legs, the lad didn't cover himself but just looked up at him hopefully, biting his lip in a way that somehow managed to look both filthy and shy.

With a snarl Geralt wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, fingers digging into the collar despite the scarf wrapping it, and hauled him from the bed, propelling him across the room hard enough that he staggered. "Out! If you want a bedmate go find someone else. Lambert's always up for it, go bother him."

The boy looked almost disappointed for a second but picked up his clothes and left, not bothering to put them on.

With a groan Geralt rolled into bed, the soft mattress warmed from the lad's body and smelling of arousal. He buried his face in the pillow and got a fresh wave of scent, but determinedly ignored it.

Melitele save him from humans.

*-*-*-*-*

Over a late breakfast, a vague memory had Geralt asking Lambert, "You have a visitor last night?"

"Actually I did, nearly tripped over your lad where he was curled up in my doorway, pretty much bollock naked. Him not me," he added, and Eskel sank back down, his jesting stymied. "Pointed him towards his room and left him to it, reckon he had a skinful too many. Try and be a bit responsible for your human, there's a dear." Lambert patted his cheek hard as he strolled towards the porridge hanging over the fire.

"He didn't try and get in your bed?"

Ladle in hand Lambert snorted. "If I hadn't already made a fool of myself all over the springs I might have dragged him in, but he just seemed tired. I had to shake him awake and he practically shat himself when he woke up."

"Probably seeing your ugly face," Eskel commented, and that was the end of anything resembling a conversation.

The boy didn't appear for breakfast, but there was a familiar scent in the air that suggested he'd come and gone long before three hungover witchers had dragged themselves there.

Vesemir had little sympathy for their aching heads this time around, sending Eskel and Geralt back to work on the barn roof, and Lambert up to one of the towers where the stonework was letting in the rain.

The youngest witcher's readable face twisted a little at the mention of his Cat skills, but none of them probed at the tender wound, heads too sore to justify another scrap.

*-*-*-*-*

Lambert finished first, catching the others' attention with a piercing whistle to give them a cheeky wave from the roof of the west tower before leaping for a balcony. With the barn nearly finished they waved back but ignored his hollar about lunch in favour of ticking off the job, the first real snowstorm of the winter looming closer by the hour with the first flurries already falling.

Satisfied with a job well done, Lambert sauntered to the kitchen with a cheerful spring in his step. The fresh winter wind had blown away the worst of his hangover, and the view, always impressive from the keep, had been spectacular.

Better yet, he'd have the kitchen to himself, so could mope in private while he ate. He scowled at the thought of Aiden, and their last petty sniping before they parted for the winter, and could feel his blood heating. Definitely better to be in private, he'd already blown up at Geralt once and he'd barely been back a day.

But his plan was interrupted at the sight of a slim man in the kitchen, back turned to the door as he carved a thin slice from the cheese and popped it in his mouth with delicate fingers that had certainly never laid a roof, nor climbed a tower with no ropes to hold him.

He looked different to the day - and the night - before, clothed in a well-fitted pair of blue breeches that must have come from some mage's wardrobe, and a dove grey shirt that looked like it would be soft and rich to the touch, but he still had that silly gray and green novelty wrapped around his neck that he'd worn even naked.

A wicked smirk slid across Lambert's face; the lad was oblivious, and a trick on Geralt's companion had to be nearly as good as a trick on Geralt himself.

Lounging on the doorway, he folded his arms, striking a deliberate pose. "Well, what have we here, a little mouse snacking on cheese."

The human practically jumped out of his skin as he spun to face him, mouth opening in a pretty little o as he dropped the knife with a clatter.

Lambert restrained his grin, letting his body do the talking, all intimidating witcher strength and sharp eyes. He stepped forward, a languid, predatory fluidity in his stride as he crowded the lad against the counter.

He'd expected nerves, maybe a hint of fear, and he certainly got that, but besides that the shock and guilt transformed into something else, blue eyes going wide. A hand reached out to stroke down his chest and then to his shock the man went to his knees, licking his lips in a blatant invitation.

Hit by a sudden pang of guilt, Lambert flicked a glance at the door. "Geralt'll know, you know. Not that he usually minds sharing."

There was no trepidation in the eager face, and Lambert shrugged. "Alright, if you're sure."

Fingers eager, he unfastened his breeches, the heavy leather ties falling apart, and tugged his cock out, barely hard beneath his calloused fingers. "Just - gimme a sec, I wasn't expecting -" He grunted a little as he roughly fisted his half-hard cock, the sight of the lad in front of him with his pretty lips wide and ready sending heat to his belly and blood to his prick. It didn't take long before it swelled in his grip, slick head sliding between his fingers. "Yeah, alright, suck me then."

The lad leant forward, pink tongue poking out between his lips, and Lambert half groaned at the sight, but a wordless, outraged shout from the doorway had them jerking apart.

Geralt stood in the doorway, eyes wide and furious. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Told you to keep an eye on your lad." Lambert shrugged, not letting go of his cock. "He's so fucking eager, thought I might as well."

In an instant Geralt was on him, a swarm of punches landing before he could even shove his prick back in his trousers, but he fought back under the onslaught.

Still on his knees the lad threw himself back, the sour reek of his fear drifting through the room as he tucked himself in a corner away from the fight, legs up protectively as he tried to make himself as small as possible, arms covering his head.

Caught in a headlock and dizzy from the blows, Lambert twisted and squirmed but it wasn't until Eskel pulled them apart that Geralt spoke again, spitting his words from snarled lips. "He's a fucking slave, you idiot!"

Ice chilling in his belly, Lambert rubbed a hand under his nose to wipe away the blood. "Didn't think you'd have to resort to slaves to get your rocks off."

Geralt lunged forward again with a roar, but this time Eskel was there to catch him and shove him back.

"For fuck's sake," Geralt bit out, but shook his head and slapped gently at Eskel's chest to say he was done.

As the room fell into silence, a shuffling sound from the corner caught the witchers' attention, looking as one to see the lad crawling on hands and knees, low and cringing. Confusion warred with horror as he made his way to Geralt's feet, before reaching for his own trouser ties, the scent of seaweed misery cutting through fear, not a hint of it betrayed by his expression.

"To the winner the spoils," Eskel said in a hollow voice.

Face a blank mask to hide his fury, Geralt crouched down to the lad's eyeline and laid a hand over the fingers fumbling at the fastenings. "It's okay, lad. Stop."

The worried blue eyes glanced from him, to Eskel, who looked away, and then to Lambert, still panting and smearing blood from his pale face, before returning to Geralt's gaze. His fingers halted.

It was that tableau, guilty bloodied witchers and a human on his knees, that Vesemir saw when he entered the kitchen.

Eyes narrowed, he took it in, shaking his head. "Hardly a day back, Lambert, and already causing trouble. Geralt, you should know better." Both opened their mouths to protest, but Vesemir's expression cowed them. "And boy, get up."

Graceless, the human obeyed, eyes as downcast as the witchers' as his hands twisted together.

Vesemir clapped his hands, surveying the room. "If you have the energy to fight, you have the energy to work."

There were some vague mutterings about lunch, but they settled into silence.

"Lad, you'll be with me. If these louts can't control themselves, they can go and shift rocks from the courtyard."

As the chastised witchers filed out, Geralt stopped by the human, who still looked small and cowed and miserable. "I'm sorry," he said. "Don't... don't do that again, lad, alright?"

Ahead of him, Eskel paused too, an uneasy expression creasing his scarred face. "Why do you keep calling him that? Surely he's got a name."

"That's what they called him, and he's not said a word to give me another."

Vesemir frowned, distracted from his anger. "We gave all of you names when you got here, if a boy didn't remember his. Not good to go nameless for too long." He looked expectantly at Geralt. "You brought him, you name him."

They waited, even the lad seemingly with bated breath, as Geralt cast about for something that would suit this bewildering, fearful youth. Eventually, he said, "Cáelm."

" _Quiet_?" Lambert snorted. "Took till you were ninety to get a fucking sense of humour."

Eskel shook his head. "It's a good enough name. Besides, it shows character growth." The other wolves look at him blankly. "Lad's lucky he didn't get called Trout." Geralt punched his arm, and the tension was broken.

Vesemir quelled them with a look. "I'm sure when we get that collar off he'll tell us his own name. Cáelm will do well enough for now. Now go, and when I see you for dinner we'll have no more of this fighting."

"Yes, Vesemir," they chorused, and trooped outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The collar comes off next chapter, I swear.
> 
> All your comments and kudos are hugely, hugely appreciated. Thank you <3


	6. Collar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your wonderful reviews, and for sticking with me.
> 
> All I can say about this chapter is, uh, sorry?

Lambert was still a little pale at dinner, shooting nervous glances at the lad, who seemed no worse for his experience, and none of them felt up for much in the way of drinking, not after nursing hangovers for the best part of the day. Instead Eskel and Vesemir settled in the common room with books, the other two with armour and mending kits.

The lad - Cáelm - sat next to Geralt, the first night he'd not stumbled straight off to bed, but before long he was yawning and, as Geralt started on the final tear in his leather jerkin there was a press along his side. Slumped, fast asleep and mouth open a little, the thin youth let out a quiet snore.

Across from them, Eskel covered his mouth, laughing silently into his hand as Geralt pulled a face and flapped a furious hand at him.

Vesemir shook his head, but even his disapproval was tinged with amusement.

When Geralt finished off the jerkin and leaned forward to exchange it for a vambrace, Cáelm jerked upright with a start, his first terrified glance taking in Geralt's hands and then the rest of the room.

Once his tired eyes had settled into wakefulness and he'd staggered to his feet, yawning and clearly ready for bed, Vesemir caught his attention. "Cáelm. I'm sure you're as eager to get that collar off as we are. We'll try tomorrow."

The thin face looked suddenly eager, and Cáelm nodded.

"Good. Sleep well, pup."

The other witchers nodded or waved goodnight, and he looked a little dazed at their attention as he headed to bed.

Vesemir addressed the others once he was out of earshot. "I'm not sure what will happen when we cut it off. I'm sure you've all noticed - you better have bloody noticed, or you'd be poor witchers indeed - that something about the lad is spelled, and it's likely the collar. It might be what's keeping him mute, or that might be something else altogether, and we don't know what else is tangled up in there. Eskel, you'll be with me. Geralt, you'll be well away, he won't need your mother-henning."

Geralt opened his mouth to protest, realised that would precisely make Vesemir's point for him, and shut it with a mulish expression.

"I've looked but there's nothing in the library about nasty little slave collars; precious little about slaves at all. We'll just have to give it a go and then deal with the outcome. Fingers crossed, it'll do no lasting harm."

*-*-*-*-*

They settled in the kitchen after breakfast, Eskel and Vesemir and Cáelm, whose hands shook with something that smelled like a combination of fear and excitement. His face was pale, but determined, and the scarf that usually wound its way around the collar was optimistically absent.

Vesemir dropped the heavy shears on the table. Normally used for trimming animal's hooves when they grew too long over the winter, they were two wicked blades and, under witcher strength, could cut through the thin steel.

"We'll try this first. If it doesn't work, there's other options." He didn't have anything specific in mind, other than the vague suggestion to find some way to reverse the enchantment, either by themselves or by contacting a mage, but there was no sense in scaring the lad more than they had to.

Perched on a stool Cáelm nodded grimly, wide eyes fixed on the shears and jaw tight.

"Head down."

Eskel's wide hands guided him, brushing his dark hair aside and gently exposing his neck to the shears. Though his head was low, they could see the thudding of the pulse in his jugular, a too-fast pumping as his body panicked.

"Hush, lad, it'll be quick. Two cuts and we'll be done."

He nodded and shuddered, folding up on himself and wrapping slim fingers around his elbows, forcing himself still.

The bulky cutters only just fit, pulling the collar uncomfortably tight against Cáelm's throat, "Three, two, one..."

The click of the shears was loud in the empty kitchen, but louder was the wail as the lad's fingers flew to his neck.

For an instant Eskel panicked that Vesemir's cut had nicked the skin, but no, there was no blood - just a ruddy sheen to the metal that suggested heat, and scrabbling fingers and a terrified whine that said it was _hot_ , the stench of burning flesh and hot metal cutting through the normal kitchen scents.

In an instant, Vesemir had dropped the shears and hauled the lad over to the sink, forcing him to bend over it despite his squirming, and poured a bucket of ice cold water over his head. "Thought this might happen," he said grimly, holding the lad down with one strong arm on his back as he swapped the bucket for the next.

Cáelm yelped and cried, choking through the water and steam, every limb protesting his treatment.

The golden light of Quen lit up the room, and Eskel dodged the flailing arms to wrap his hands, glowing and protected from harm, around Cáelm's neck under the collar in a protective imitation of choking, lifting the burning hot metal from his skin. His fingers overlapped around the front of his throat and his thumbs met at the back, the pulse hammering under his huge palm.

"Clever," Vesemir grunted, and kept pouring the water until the metal no longer warmed Eskel's skin, even when he lifted the shield. He peeled his hands from the reddened skin of Cáelm's neck, only realising as the lad slid backwards that his grip and the weight of his forearm on the thin back had been all that was keeping the man from falling. He caught the limp body before he fell too far, sweeping him up in his arms to lay him on the table.

Where Vesemir had cut the collar, an angry red burn had bitten into Cáelm's skin and was already starting to blister, more burns radiating out from that spot. The collar itself looked unblemished as ever, and Eskel bit out a curse. "Self-healing magic fuckery."

"Let's treat the burn first. I'll get aloe from the hot house, you stay here. Keep him calm if he wakes."

Cáelm didn't stir until long after the burn was smeared with aloe and a numbing cream, drifting slowly into consciousness, eyelashes fluttering, before trying to grab at his neck. Eskel, watching closely at his side, caught the hand before it could touch the wound. "Still there, I'm afraid. It's burned you, we've treated it but it'll need time to heal."

The lad's face twisted miserably and he bit his lip, trying to blink away the tears gathering in his eyes. Eskel helped him sit up, offering him water and the jar of dried figs he so often had his hand in.

"Sorry lad," Vesemir said gruffly, leaning heavily on the table. Likely Cáelm couldn't tell, but he was irritated at himself and frustrated by the failure, coupled with the guilt of injuring the lad.

Still shaking with adrenaline, Cáelm reached out to Vesemir's hand and squeezed it tightly. Vesemir's shoulders hunched, but he let out a heavy sigh. "Next time we'll take more precautions."

Cáelm ate another fig.

*-*-*-*-*

Their second attempt was a few days later after an early dinner, with the nasty burn healed into a red scab.

Caught out by their first attempt, all four witchers were in attendance for the second. Vesemir once again wielded the clippers; Lambert, his hair freshly trimmed short, stood by with buckets of ice cold water. Eskel was to cast Quen from the start, protecting Cáelm's neck, and Geralt would attempt to keep the metal from reforging itself.

Cáelm obediently bent over the sink, Lambert ready with the bucket, but as Vesemir approached with the shears his legs began to tremble. At the first touch of metal to his skin he wrenched away, panting, eyes wide and terrified.

"Easy, easy," Vesemir hushed him, like a skittish colt. "We're ready this time, it shouldn't burn you."

The lad took a step forward, then paused, looking away and eyeing up the doorway. Geralt caught his arm. "We don't have to do this if you don't want to. Or if it's easier we can keep you calm, or even make you sleep. You don't need to be awake."

Cáelm bit his lip, swallowing hard as he thumbed at the thin red mark left by their previous attempt, but finally nodded.

"Sleep? Or just-" The lad was already nodding again, pale and determined. "Alright."

Eskel stepped forward. "I'll do it."

"With Quen?" It's not that he doubted Eskel capable of holding two signs - he'd seen him manage three in training with ease, each of them stronger than most witchers could manage one - but Cáelm's fear was evident, and the thought of making that worse with a fumbled attempt was inconceivable.

"Yes." He sounded sure, and Geralt gave him a quick nod. Eskel smiled at Cáelm, who offered him a jittery twitch of lips in return. "Just relax, okay?" One hand on Cáelm's shoulder he raised the other and moved his fingers just so. "Somne, Cáelm. Sleep."

With a soft sigh and a flutter of long lashes the lad crumpled, Eskel's grip slowing him as Geralt caught his limp body. He draped him back over the edge of the sink, leaving Lambert to hold him up. Casting Quen, he took hold of the collar in two big hands.

"Ready?" Vesemir asked, sliding the clippers into place against the metal.

Grim-faced, Eskel cast his own Quen, sliding his fingertips into the slim gap between Geralt's hands, trying to keep as much as possible of Cáelm's pale skin from exposure to the heat. "Ready."

The shears slid shut. The metal started to heat as their medallions thrummed on their chests, and Geralt grunted as he pulled at the steel, trying to keep the ends from reforging. Fast but steady, Vesemir yanked the shears back and shoved them back in at the opposite side, cutting through again with a snap.

To their relief the two pieces came away into Geralt's hands, the heat starting to fade in an instant, the enchantment broken. He dropped them carelessly on the floor, kicking them aside as both he and Eskel shook out their hands, letting the golden light of Quen fade away.

Once Lambert had eased Cáelm away from the sink, settling him limply on the bench, Eskel crouched down before him, lifting Somne and patting at the lad's cheek gently until he stirred, then woke with a gasp.

There was a moment of pregnant silence as the lad felt at his throat, staring at the two uneven halves of the collar discarded on the floor.

He opened his mouth, and croaked out, "Thank you."

The witchers broke into wide smiles, but at the same time Cáelm's face twisted, distraught, and he slapped a hand over his mouth, the other over his bare throat.

Seaweed misery hit the four witchers in a wave, sending them reeling, and Cáelm shoved them back further, squeezing between Lambert and Eskel to stagger, then run, through the open door.

"What the fuck?" Lambert said, bewildered.

Geralt shook his head grimly. "I don't know, but I don't think it was good."

The others stayed behind to avoid overwhelming the lad, clearing up and settling down for the evening in the common room, while Geralt followed the scent of distress through the keep to the winding stairs of the north tower.

A sudden sense of urgency had his feet slapping at the ground as he took the stairs, faster and faster, a chill wind spiraling down as he spiraled ever upwards.

The eerie sound of an open door banging against stone reached his ears long before he could see it, but dread weighed heavy on him as he found the entrance to the north wall wide open, strains of an animalistic howl reaching through the doorway.

He stepped outside into the bitter cold.

The roaring winter winds bit at his nose and ears, whipping his hair into chaos, and eager snowflakes made sharp by the wind cut at his cheeks. Icier still was the chill in his gut at the sight of Cáelm standing between two great crenellations, one hand on each side and his feet at the edge, bent double as he yelled wordlessly into nothing.

"Cáelm," he shouted over the eerie cry of the wind, when the desperate man finally paused for breath. "Come down?" He hated the thready edge fear lent to his tone.

The young man straightened up and slowly turned his head, fingers grasping spasmodically at the stonework. "My voice is ruined," he rasped. "You don't understand!"

"Come inside, and you can explain it to me."

"It's-" His voice broke, already worn from shouting, and the gathering tears trickled down his cheeks, only to be snatched away by the winds. "My voice is who I _am_!" He slapped a hand against his chest and Geralt cringed at the loss of grip; it was soon back against the stone, but the lad was peering over the edge in a way that Geralt didn't like at all.

"I'm going to come and stand with you," he called, and crept forward until he was on the flat of the wall behind Cáelm, the winds even stronger now he was out from the protection of the building. Reaching out to where an icy pale hand gripped the stonework, he curled warm fingers around it, getting a good grasp as he eased closer, until he could step up onto the same stone platform and press his body against the one that trembled and shook.

He wound his free arm around Cáelm's chest to hold him tight, feeling his heart thudding fit to burst, and dipped his head until he could murmur quietly, despite the wind. "I don't know who you are. At least give me the chance to learn."

There was a shudder from the body beneath his arm, and he thought for an awful moment Cáelm would have them both over the edge, but then Cáelm let go of the wall to grab at Geralt's arm where it wrapped around him.

"Alright. Yes." The shuddering worsened.

"Good," Geralt said, "Good lad. Let's step back down, hmm?"

He eased them off the ridge of stone onto the wall, all but carrying the younger man. When they were back on solid ground, Cáelm turned in his grip to bury his face in Geralt's broad chest, shuddering and sobbing as Geralt held him close, slightly lost but trying his best to soothe the fractured misery.

When the sobs finally ceased, Geralt pulled back, cupping a tear streaked cheek with a hand that looked huge beside the darkly circled eyes. "Let's get back inside, get you warm."

Cáelm nodded, but when he went to move away his knees folded beneath him. Geralt caught him before he fell and swept him into his arms like some swooning maiden. He didn't protest the treatment, and Geralt vowed that he'd get more food into the lad, still too light despite nearly a month of Vesemir's cooking.

It wasn't long before they were clattering into the common room, the other witchers rising to their feet in alarm at the sight of the shivering lad in his arms.

Vesemir took charge. "Eskel, get him something hot to drink. Lambert, blankets." The two witchers vanished to do his bidding, and once Geralt had Cáelm settled on the cosiest of the seats, he pulled the white haired witcher aside with a sharp, questioning look.

"North wall," Geralt said shortly. "He's fine. Cold, but fine now. I don't think he... I don't know."

Vesemir shook his head, looking old and worn. "I didn't expect that."

"I should have kept a closer eye on him," Geralt bit out. "He tried before but I thought... with the collar gone, it would be better."

"These things don't heal easy. Let's deal with this for now, likely just shock. It's been a hard day for him."

Curled in on himself on the seat, Cáelm's gaze was fixed in the distance, staring at nothing as shivers raced over his skin, but when Eskel returned to press a mug of warm cider into his hands he stirred, looking up in gratitude before remembering himself. "Thank you, Eskel," he grated.

The broad witcher grinned widely, before flashing a guilty look at Geralt.

Cáelm drank the cider eagerly, long fingers clasped around the mug, and when Lambert brought thick blankets he burrowed under them, a flush slowly returning to his cheeks.

Geralt stood by his side, monitoring the shivering and watching his brothers fuss over the lad. "Better?"

"Yes," Cáelm said firmly, eyes bright as they met his gaze. "I feel like... like I'm _awake_." He cleared his throat and swallowed, his voice rough and clearly unfamiliar with use, and Geralt squeezed his leg.

"Don't feel you have to talk."

There was a snort of laughter, and Cáelm took another gulp of the cider. "I haven't talked in... what year is it?"

"1246," Eskel supplied helpfully.

"Nearly three years," Cáelm said, his face closing down, another wave of seaweed misery drifting from him.

"You've been a slave for three years?"

"Six," he said shortly, curling a little tighter into the warm blankets.

They didn't ask any more questions, but eventually the shivers subsided, and Cáelm began to speak, voice husky.

"My father sold me," he said matter of factly. "I didn't fit his picture of a perfect son, so he sold me to the first people who would have me, a bunch of slavers come up from the south. They sold me to brigands who wanted some cheap entertainment..." His voice abruptly cracked off into nothing and he coughed.

"Rest your voice, you shouldn't talk after all your shouting," Geralt scolded him gently.

Abruptly Cáelm's bright blue eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry," he choked out, even as he wiped them away. "I should be happy to be free, but my voice... "

"Hasn't been used in three years, then you go and strain it by yelling at mountains." Geralt chided him. "Don't write it off just yet."

After all the stress, it wasn't surprising when Cáelm fell asleep despite the early hour, draped against Geralt's shoulder, and the witcher eventually carried him up to bed.

When they got up for breakfast, he was gone.


	7. Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. After that cliffhanger my inbox filled with delightfully entertaining yelling, which was very satisfying. The temptation to leave it another day was.... substantial.
> 
> Everyone is being extremely lovely. Thank you <3

When Geralt woke, it was with a smug sense of accomplishment and a fresh eagerness to speak with his travelling companion. He hadn't even asked his name, never mind found out who he was or where he came from.

'Give me the chance to learn,' that was bollocks, he'd as good as told him to shut up, for all that it had been meant well. Smugness turned to irritation at himself, and at his own lack of social niceties. Still, he had the rest of the winter to talk, and at least now he might get an answer back.

His last game of Gwent had gone badly, sticking him with a week of the morning animal feed among other tasks, so with reluctance he pulled on his thick gambeson and gloves over his usual clothes, bracing himself for the aftermath of a night of heavy snowfall.

In the morning light he could see a spray of melted snow where it had blown inside the entranceway, and smell the crispness of the morning in the usually dusty air. With a grin he turned towards the springs; Eskel must have taken pity on him.

A while later, after a wash and a serving of porridge from the overnight pan, he was rinsing the bowl when Eskel arrived, yawning despite the late hour. They'd stayed up drinking, quiet and contemplative in the wake of Cáelm's distress.

"Thanks for feeding the animals, saved me a job," Geralt said cheerfully.

"What?" Eskel looked blank. "I didn't feed them, must have been Vesemir." It certainly wouldn't have been Lambert, unless he was trying to sweeten Geralt up for a particular request.

Geralt shook his head slowly. "I don't think so; he was still up when I went to bed."

"What made you think I'd done it?" Eskel asked, trickling honey into his own bowl.

The white haired witcher went very still. "Someone went outside after the snow started falling." He dropped the bowl with a wet clatter and raised his voice in a bellow. "Vesemir! Lambert!"

Not waiting for an answer he strode towards the stairs to Cáelm's room, face stony. Lambert intercepted him part way there, yawning and rubbing his hands over his bed-flattened hair. "The fuck's going on?"

"Did you go outside since the snow started last night?"

"Last time I went out was before dinner. Why?"

"I think Cáelm's gone," Geralt said tightly.

"Fuck." Lambert peeled off to find Vesemir as Geralt jogged towards Cáelm's room.

Shoving open the door, Geralt already knew there was little point.

Clothes tumbled haphazardly from drawers, most of them pretty silken things that would do the lad no good in the snow outside, and the sour bite of fear lay heavy in the air.

Vesemir appeared then, in the doorway with Lambert beside him.

"Did you-"

"No, I've not been out. He's gone, then?"

Geralt's face was a grim line. "We can still track him, it's not been long."

Not long, but outside the snow was still falling, covering tracks and sounds, and he might have been gone for hours.

In minutes all the witchers were dressed for the outdoors, thick leather and heavy jackets covering their skin. Without a winter coat, Geralt dreaded to think of the state Cáelm might be in, for all that he'd taken a few furs.

Stepping outside, the wind was strong and icy, sweeping away most of the scent trail. The handful of footprints in the shadow of the keep were barely visible, and were quickly vanishing under new snow.

"Fuck," Geralt muttered, but bound forwards nonetheless, all four of them searching for any sign left by a single skinny human. The snow hid his tracks, the pregnant clouds hanging low across the valley making it impossible to see further down even when the snow briefly lifted.

They followed the meagre trail for hours, convinced that any minute they would run into Cáelm just around the next corner, but he was moving surprisingly fast, and had clearly left long before dawn. They could smell it in his trail; he was terrified and running from something, and Geralt had the awful feeling it might be his pursuers.

Lambert caught a dump of snow down his neck from an errant tree branch, swearing up a storm; Eskel treated himself to occasional bursts of Igni to warm his fingers, preferring to keep his hands free for signs but not wanting to suffer the inevitable frostbite.

It was getting dark, the heavy clouds hastening the evening, before Vesemir stepped alongside Geralt as he surveyed a split in the path, where an unfamiliar traveller might have taken the route that looked easier and led only to a dead end. "If he's moved this far, likely he'll still be well tomorrow. And if he catches sight of us and runs, in the dark..."

Geralt shook his head but didn't argue, turning away from the trail to head back to the keep with the chill settled heavy in his chest.

*-*-*-*-*

The winter days were short and the nights long, and Geralt found himself at the door before first light, chafing at the bit to restart their search but not wanting to leave without a second pair of hands. With more notice than the day before, he'd packed a small bag with medical supplies, rope, and a little food, including the dried figs Cáelm so liked. He'd fed the animals too, with an apology for the previous day's breakfast being lumped in with their evening food; Roach had kicked at the stable door when he'd gone in, clearly unimpressed, and Vesemir's ugly mount had bitten him as the goats screamed their displeasure.

Unexpectedly it was Lambert who joined him next, usually a late riser, and the two of them headed out without bothering to wait for the others. Geralt didn't comment on his companion, but had his suspicions that Lambert still felt guilty about the incident in the kitchen.

The snow had ceased some time overnight, turning the world muted and glittering, the sun bright in a searingly blue sky. The glint of it off the snow had their pupils dilating down to the thinnest of slits, but it meant a clear route as they loped through the snow, and they made much better time.

From the point they'd left the trail, Geralt took a deep breath to try and give himself direction. It was fear-scent that tugged him to the right, a sour tang that still clung to the rockface where Cáelm had been forced to snatch at the rock to keep himself upright.

Geralt tried not to think how slippery lethal the trail became in winter, how as young witchers they'd called it _Killer_.

He hastened his steps, Lambert following in his wake.

Time drifted by in silence; they found a recently burned fire beside a thin recess in the rock, enough for a skinny human to hide from the wind; an hour later as he cast about for another sign that they were on the right track and the lad hadn't taken one of the many animal trails or wrong turns, some unusual sound snagged Lambert's attention.

"Geralt," he hissed, and nodded his head. There, another few hundred metres on, an open wound of rock amidst the snow, right by the edge.

Heart in his throat, Geralt overtook Lambert as he jogged closer.

The edge of the cliff, treacherous at best in the dry, appeared to have given way, sending snow, rock and an unfortunate traveller tumbling down into the shallow gully below.

There, a few metres down in a bloodied bundle of furs and rock, sprawled Cáelm, unmoving. The wind snatched away any sounds of life.

"Shit," Lambert said. "You go down, I'll wait up here."

With a nod, Geralt handed over his pack and lowered himself from the edge, strong fingers keeping him from dropping until his feet found good placements on the icy rock. It took him seconds to climb down alongside Cáelm's still body, to reach out and check for a pulse beneath icy skin. "He's alive," he called, relief threading his tone.

Aside from the head wound, he found no other breaks, no worrisome grinding of bones when he felt at the lad's neck, an injury that he'd seen take many a young witcher after a fall. Nothing to his arms or legs, though one ankle felt hot under his touch despite the chill of the snow, likely a sprain. The snow that had led to his fall must have cushioned his landing.

Beneath his hands, Cáelm groaned, shifting unhappily in the snow. Though he was unexpectedly well dressed for the weather, in chunky boots and a too big coat that he'd padded with furs, he must have been lying there for a good couple of hours, and the coat and thick wool trousers were wet through beneath him.

Hazy blue eyes blinked up at him and then widened, the heart rate picking up in surprise or fear. "G'rlt?" the man slurred out.

"Stay still," Geralt ordered, but it was too late, Cáelm was already trying to sit up, swaying a little as he moved and lifting a hand to his head, pulling it away smeared in blood.

"Oh," he said blankly, staring at his fingers. "Ow."

"Does anything hurt?"

He looked up with wide eyes, teeth chattering, voice rough. "Just my... my head. Ow."

"Can you move your legs?"

"Mm. Yeah." He demonstrated with a lacklustre wiggle of both, then winced again, sending a drop of blood from the wound on his forehead down into his eyebrow. "Fuck, ow, my ankle."

"We're going back up. Can you stand?"

Cáelm got to his knees, but then stopped, swaying, on all fours, head hanging low. "No?"

"Lambert," Geralt called, "Send the rope down."

A thick rope snaked down towards him. When he looked back at Cáelm, the man was hunched over on his knees, sticking his hands under his armpits in an attempt to warm his fingers where the gloves had been shredded, perhaps from scrabbling at the rock as he fell. He pulled his own off and dropped them in Cáelm's lap; when he just looked blank Geralt took each hand and eased off the ruined leather, replacing it with his own thicker, fur-lined gloves.

"What're you doing? Stop fucking about, princess, I'm freezing my balls off up here." Geralt flicked Lambert off without letting go of Cáelm, and grabbed for the rope.

It was thin but strong, more than enough to lift a skinny human; shifting the furs about under the coat to pad Cáelm's waist he fashioned a makeshift harness.

At his signal Lambert began to pull, easing Cáelm steadily upwards. The young man's head lolled on his shoulders, though he tried his best to steady himself with clumsy hands and feet against the rock; Geralt climbed alongside him with the lad's small pack on his shoulder, occasionally reaching out to steady him as he swayed. At the top, Geralt eased Cáelm up and over with a hand splayed wide across his arse until Lambert could free a hand to pull him up completely.

The younger witcher managed to give Geralt a hand too, and the three of them collapsed, breathing hard from exertion and adrenaline, their breaths coalescing into white puffs of ice.

Further up the path, Eskel's voice carried through the still winter air. "You found him?"

"Injured," Geralt called back, shuffling aside so they could see with their own eyes the battered body.

Cáelm groaned a little under the scrutiny, eyes fluttering closed. The wide gash across his temple had bled heavily, as head wounds were wont to do, and his recent movement had opened it again, blood spilling further down his cheek, cutting through the pink glow of sunburn.

"And cold," Lambert added. Without a thought Geralt stripped off his gambeson and shirt, pale scarred skin all but oblivious to the winter chill; Lambert pulled off his own gambeson and shoved it towards him with an embarrassed tint to his cheeks as Eskel and Vesemir arrived, faces creased with worry.

Lambert glanced between Geralt, crouched by his side with dry clothes in hand, and Vesemir, surveying from a few paces back. "Body heat might..." the young witcher ventured tentatively.

"No," Geralt snapped. "He's barely conscious. No." Melitele strike him down if he'd allow the slightest hint of impropriety to scar the lad further.

Lambert shrugged, seemingly uncaring, but Vesemir lay a hand on Geralt's shoulder. "At least get him out of the snow."

There was a pause as a muscle jumped in Geralt's jaw, but he eventually nodded.

Oblivious to the deep snow, Lambert settled down on his rump, legs either side of Cáelm's limp body, and Eskel crouched by his side. "Here," the scarred witcher said, big hands gentle, "I'll lift him."

Eskel eased Cáelm up despite his helpless groan as Lambert scooted in, legs spread wide to accommodate him, then laid him back until he rested limply against the bulk of Lambert's chest.

The coat and furs pulled away from Cáelm's skin, leaving a chill clamminess, but he wasn't so cold as they'd first feared, no redness suggesting frostbite, though he likely wasn't far off.

Between them they eased uncooperative arms into Geralt's shirt and Lambert's heavy gambeson, but before the coat was fastened down over the surprisingly hairy chest Geralt stuffed his hands underneath, rubbing them briskly over the pale skin, bringing a little warmth to the thin flesh. Cáelm grunted a little as his body jolted, eyes closing again to stem dizziness, but Lambert held him steady.

Geralt tried not to look too closely at the flashes of pale skin, at how his hands together more than spanned the thin waist, rough fingers huge against sharp ribs; as soon as the warmth had started to return he snatched his hands back, smoothing down the dry shirt and fastening the jacket.

From his pack Geralt handed a splint and a few strips of fabric off to Vesemir; he covered the head wound, Cáelm's head resting against Lambert's shoulder. Vesemir stabilised the ankle, leaving the boot in place to keep the swelling down until they could treat it properly back at the keep.

Geralt plucked at the wet trousers with a frown. When he glanced over at Eskel, eyebrow raised, the witcher rolled his eyes but went for the ties of his trousers.

"Hope you've got smallclothes on," Lambert said with a smirk.

"Fuck you."

Eskel did indeed have his smallclothes on, and tucked his feet back into his boots with scarred, hairy knees showing.

With the ankle wrapped and steady they stripped off Cáelm's wet trousers down to his smalls and one boot, resorting to a knife when they proved too difficult to ease over the boot, and helped the lad, trembling and flinching at every move of his ankle, into Eskel's too-big trousers.

Once he was dressed in dry clothes, wounds treated, Vesemir stood over him with a scowl. "What were you thinking, lad? Coming down the trail after a snowfall, you're lucky this is all that happened." Cáelm didn't reply, but given the slumped set of his shoulders and the pallid shade to his skin it might have been stubbornness or simply exhaustion.

Crouched at his side Geralt chimed in with his own chastisement, trying to soften Vesemir's ire. At least the lad had dressed well for the snow, brought flint and furs and food in the stolen pack. "Thought you realised how tough it was coming up. You did well to get this far but it was stupid-"

"Not stupid," Cáelm bit out, sharper than anything they'd heard him say. "I-" He cleared his roughened throat and started again. "I studied. Oxenfurt."

Geralt raised a brow. "Oxenfurt is a special sort of stupid."

The tiny shy smile that gentle prod earned him made his heart thud in his chest.

"Good thing we found you here. You wouldn't have got much further, the pass gets nastier from here in the snow."

Cáelm didn't say anything more; that last defiance seemed to have sapped the final dregs of his strength.

"Can you walk?" No answer. Vesemir shook his head. "We'll carry him. Eskel, take him for now."

Eskel swept him up from Lambert's lap without protest, slinging a limp arm around his shoulders, and strode away leaving the others to gather the rope and scattered furs under Vesemir's unimpressed gaze.

*-*-*-*-*

At first Cáelm was quiet in Eskel's arms, drifting in and out of consciousness; when the other witchers caught up they too walked in silence, Lambert not even bothering to joke about their various states of undress.

After a while Cáelm stirred, batting at Eskel to let him go, and eventually the witcher had to settle him with Axii, much to his own distaste, before passing him on to Vesemir to carry for a while.

"Why'd he run?" Lambert asked eventually, into the snow-deadened air.

"He's been a slave for six years," Geralt said quietly, barely audible above the crunching of the snow under their feet. "That won't go away quickly."

"But we were good to him."

"We were still his captors. And witchers. No wonder he was fucking terrified."

They settled into an uncomfortable silence.


	8. Jaskier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the formatting blip and thank you to JustGail for flagging!

It took them the best part of a day to make it back to the keep, uphill in the snow, and despite the donated clothing and gloves Cáelm's still-slender frame began to shiver in earnest, trembling in Vesemir's arms as night closed in around then.

It was a relief to get him inside, tucked up in his room with a roaring fire, though he was still drifting in and out of consciousness, delirious and half-lucid. Axii held him calm as they stitched the head wound and bound his ankle properly, with the balm Vesemir had given him weeks ago smeared across his skin to bring down the inflammation. They managed to get half a mug of warm broth down him, Eskel holding him upright as Geralt carefully spooned it between slack lips, but it was clear that a fever had him in its grasp, whether from some infection, the cold, or just a reaction to the loss of the collar.

Eventually they settled him with Somne, Geralt taking the first watch as the lad tossed and turned amongst the furs, making sounds low in his throat but nothing that made sense. He soothed him when he woke, crying out, but otherwise contented himself with watching in silence.

Occasionally Cáelm woke enough to take more sips of broth, helped along with Axii, though mostly he slept, exhausted and feverish.

The first night, when Geralt had been reluctant to leave him even in Vesemir's care, Vesemir had placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed firmly. "He'll be alright. He dressed well, and he survived well, and now he's back here safe."

Survived well, for a human, maybe even too well, though perhaps the furs and cold weather gear had been enough for a young man fuelled by fear of his captors. Still, it was no matter really, and a witcher would be the last to judge someone for something they couldn't help as long as it did no harm.

With a last heavy sigh Geralt shook his head and left Vesemir in peace.

The sunburn across Cáelm's face, an oft-forgotten risk of travelling in the snow at such high altitudes, began to peel in patches, though mostly it was turning to tan and freckles, and when they rebandaged the gash on his head each witcher took care to spread more aloe across his burned skin, rough hands gentle against his softness. One evening, with nothing to do other than watch and listen to feverish mumblings, Geralt brought a razor and soap and warm water, shaving the lad's face and neck with gentle hands and Axii to stay any movement.

Lambert, on afternoon watch, was there when the fever broke, the lad shifting unhappily in the sweat-soaked sheets and blinking awake.

"Afternoon, sunshine," he chirped, leaning forward in the chair.

"Where...?" The voice was still rusty and low, and Cáelm's fingers scrubbed clumsily over his eyes.

"You're still at Kaer Morhen, sweetness. Home of the wolf witchers."

Though it hadn't been Lambert's intention, Cáelm's eyes filled with tears, and he clumsily rolled over to face the wall. Lambert waited, but it seemed that was all the conversation he'd get. Instead the lad just wept, silent and unmoving, until he faded back into sleep.

Eskel took the next watch, bringing up his dinner to eat the stew with his eyes fixed on the sleeping lad. Lambert didn't mention anything much to him, other than that there had been a brief moment of lucidity, but the salt and misery scent of the room spoke for itself.

It was the next morning before the younger witcher was there again, awkwardly taking over from Vesemir's night shift. When Cáelm stirred, twisting to see who was by his bedside, Lambert looked away.

After a long silence, the lad steadying his breaths as though asleep but his heart rate betraying him, Lambert spoke, still staring at the wall.

"I was a prisoner once."

Cáelm didn't speak, but Lambert could feel the weight of his gaze, the deepening of his breathing as he listened.

He swallowed hard, let his head hang heavy. Voice low, he spoke to his knees.

"Three months. Three months in a fucking rotten piss-soaked cell with nothing but stale bread and fetid water and rats, these huge bastards... Figured I'd die there."

Lambert flinched at a tentative touch at his wrist, but when he didn't pull away a slim hand covered his, pale against the tanned brown and scarred pink. The fingertips were roughened, catching at his coarse skin, neither the wear of a field worker or the smoothness of a noble, and Cáelm's hand was warm.

"This isn't like that. Kaer Morhen can be home. A shit one, but... you know. Still home. You're probably all messed up in your head, but just rest here for the winter, yeah? Then you can go do whatever. You're not a slave any more, I swear." He looked up, golden eyes pained. "And I'm sorry, about before. In the kitchen. I didn't know."

Cáelm went to speak, but footsteps heralded Eskel's arrival and Lambert snatched his hand away and stood, leaving the boy blinking after him.

"All yours," he said cheerfully, patting Eskel on the shoulder.

"Lambert," Cáelm called roughly, and the witcher froze in the doorway. "Thank you."

He nodded once, sharply, and didn't look back.

*-*-*-*-*

It was Eskel that chivvied him out of bed a day later, managing to track down a crutch for the ankle that was finally losing the swelling in favour of an ugly black and green bruise.

"Come on, Cáelm, you've been abed long enough." He waved the crutch. "See if we can get you down to the kitchen."

"Jaskier," he rasped.

"What?"

"My name. It's Jaskier."

Eskel blinked, a little surprised, but recovered well. "I'm Eskel."

Cáelm - Jaskier - nodded, and Eskel found himself flustered. "Of course you know that. Sorry."

Jaskier gave him a limp half smile. "Good to meet you properly, Eskel."

"Think you could eat a little? You've not got much on you to lose. Then we'll get you down to the baths."

"Bath first, then food?" Jaskier looked hopeful, though braced to be told off for even asking, and Eskel folded.

"Bath first. But don't tell Vesemir."

With the crutch, Jaskier managed a slow and unwieldy trek to the hot springs, though the stairs proved too much for his fever-weakened muscles and bad leg, so Eskel picked him up and carried him. Unlike last time he was awake enough to be embarrassed, and Eskel delighted in the flush it brought to his cheeks, almost disappointed to put him down again.

His interest in the keep around him was palpable, a far cry from the quiet, servile creeping they'd become used to, and Eskel found himself relaxing as Jaskier hesitantly asked questions and fumbled awkwardly with the crutch.

Once they were in the low cavern, Eskel politely averted his eyes as Jaskier stripped off unselfconsciously, leaning on the side of the pool for support. When he looked back, Jaskier was in the water, gazing back at him.

"You can join me," Jaskier said, something shifting at the edges of his smile. "I don't mind."

Eskel hesitated, but not for long. Between taking turns watching the young man, and the usual chores, there hadn't been as much time as he'd have liked for lounging around in the springs.

Eschewing the bergamot Jaskier seemed to prefer, Eskel picked up his own favoured soap, a rosemary and mint that would tingle pleasantly on his skin, and dropped his clothes one by one on the ledge before clambering in.

The lad half-swam from the other wall of the pool until he could sit beside Eskel on the carved out bench, just over an arm's length away. Resting his head on the wall, the tips of his hair swayed idly in the water, longer than when he'd arrived weeks ago with no one eager to cut it.

They sat without speaking, listening to the running water, Jaskier eventually moving to wash his hair and then the rest of his body, humming contentedly as he returned to the carved stone seating.

Eskel couldn't help but notice the occasional looks Jaskier shot him, examining his face, his broad chest, and once or twice what lay below the water. It wasn't blatant, but to a witcher all scrutiny was worth noting.

Eventually he spoke, and Jaskier jumped a little.

"Jaskier. Dandelion. Was it for the colour?" Was he born with a bright mop of blonde hair, or to parents with a fondness for sunshine yellow?

"Oh. No." The lad didn't elaborate, instead bringing his knees up to rest his chin on them, a haunted expression on his mobile face, and Eskel mentally kicked himself for destroying the peaceful silence.

When they finally made it to the kitchen, the other witchers were there taking their own lunch, and all three of them looked delighted to see Jaskier on his feet.

Geralt helped him over the bench, supporting him with a firm hand under his elbow, and once he was seated Eskel stepped forward with a triumphant grin. "Everyone, please allow me to introduce - Jaskier!" He gave an attempt at a courtly bow.

The young man ducked his head, cheeks pink, but looked up from under the fall of his hair. "Hi." His voice was still rough, but eased by time and the warmth of the hot springs into something slightly less like Geralt's growl.

"We're delighted you're well, Jaskier. I'm sure there are many discussions to be had, but please - eat. Questions can wait."

"Thank you, Vesemir. You're all very kind, to invite me into your home."

"It's nothing," Geralt said gruffly. "Couldn't leave you there."

"Still." Jaskier pinked a little more at what sounded like chastisement, looking down at his plate. "Thank you. And I'm sorry I - misunderstood."

"It's nothing," Vesemir echoed, and pushed the potatoes across the table.

*-*-*-*-*

It took a few days before Jaskier could walk without the crutch, and a few more before the limp was gone. Much to his delight the heat of the baths seemed to help speed the healing, combined with the salve Vesemir had given him on his second day at the keep, the astringent scent following his movements around the castle as it hadn't done in weeks.

The sunburn faded completely, leaving only a faint tan and freckles across the bridge of his nose. The head wound, healed as fast as the fever, was down to just a scab, and would likely not even leave a scar.

Still nervous around the witchers, who seemed to move too fast and too silently for his liking, Jaskier seemed to spend most of his time in the library, reading voraciously, although he'd also picked up a notebook and quill from somewhere. Most days his reading seemed to be confined to poetry, epics or ballads or sonnets, with the occasional foray into bestiaries, but Vesemir locked away the most sensitive of the tomes on witcher lore just in case.

Often, passing by the library, the old witcher heard him speaking, low and quiet, reciting Henner's _Elegy to Lost Fortunes_ , or _Love Amongst The Dragons_ , reading each part in a separate voice, or more often some poem he didn't recognise.

The roughness of his voice lessened over time, becoming less a rasp and more of a natural tenor, soothing enough that when Vesemir heard him he would stand and listen for a while, caught in the rhythmic flow of the words.

*-*-*-*-*

Once Vesemir was happy that the lad was walking without a limp, he took him aside and offered exercises that would build up his ankle and the rest of his body.

"No point you staying with witchers if you can't at least try and keep up," he'd said gruffly. "We'll get you well in time for spring." Jaskier had looked surprised, but oddly touched, and agreed.

First off was a loop around the ground floor of the castle, a gentle jog with Vesemir following close behind to check all was well. Before long Jaskier's cream shirt had darkened with sweat between his shoulder blades, his breath coming harder, but he didn't make a single complaint, and only once dropped into a walk, before pushing back into a slow trot, face determined.

Bent double by the door to the courtyard, breathing hard with his hands on his knees, bright blue eyes glanced up at Vesemir, checking for approval.

"Once we're sure of the ankle I'll have you running the walls. Come on, outside."

Jaskier let his head drop back down for a second, but then shoved himself upright with a huff.

Next was weapon skills in the courtyard, weak winter sunshine glancing off the shallow, churned up snow.

"Staff or sword?"

Jaskier looked blankly at him."

Eskel had suggested, late one night, that Jaskier ate like a noble, at least once he was sure no one would take it away, picking politely at his meal as the witchers inhaled their own food.

A staff was a weapon for all classes, though mostly restricted to peasants and young pages, drawn from the ranks of nobility but too young to be given steel. Witchers trained with both, of course. Nobles preferred the showmanship of swords, and used them in their silly little duels over imagined slights or court etiquette, though rapiers were more common than the heavy broadswords the witchers used.

Eventually Jaskier offered, "Sword?" in a voice that sounded like he'd rather be anywhere but in Kaer Morhen's training yard, discussing weaponry.

Leaving the two staves aside, Vesemir handed Jaskier a shortsword, one they would have used for the younger witchers, after the first trials but no later than that. Jaskier eyed it dubiously but wrapped his hand around the leather hilt. Vesemir's own sword was a blunted thing, though he mostly stuck to obvious lunges that Jaskier was able to parry even when his steps began to slow.

He fought like a noble too, although not a particularly well trained one, footing and wrist positioned for duelling, not true battle, with little peripheral awareness.

The ankle held up throughout, though Vesemir was careful not to knock him or ask too much of the weakened limb. He didn't think he'd worked the lad that hard - after all, he'd been well able to flee the castle despite the snow, so clearly had a decent basic level of fitness - but when the other three witchers arrived for their own training, he called a halt and Jaskier slumped gratefully against a wall, sweaty and gasping, but any lingering wariness vanished in the face of physical movement and blood rush.

"Water?" He held up a skin, and Jaskier snatched it from him and drank greedily, spilling it down his shirt - any outdoor layers he'd pulled on to beat back the cold were long gone.

Lambert, a shit-eating grin smeared across his face, patted Jaskier on the shoulder as he went past. "Welcome to Kaer Morhen. You should be proud, getting the shit beaten out of you by Vesemir is an honour."

"I'm going to die," Jaskier eventually coughed out, voice thin and feeble, and Vesemir scoffed at him.

"Hardly. Keep moving, don't sit down out here or you'll stiffen up in the cold, and eat plenty at dinner."

Turning his attention to the witchers, he tuned out the panting behind him in favour of correcting Lambert's stance, or scolding Eskel for over-reliance on signs.

He was slightly surprised when, a good half hour later, he glanced around and Jaskier was still there, well wrapped in his thick coat and shifting from foot to foot, nose pinking from the cold but eyes bright as he watched.

They'd seen him observing the training once, early on, and there had been the rich reek of fear about him, and he hadn't watched again. But that had been before the collar had gone, when he'd been a slave fearing punishment, and there was no trace of fear now.

Instead he appeared fascinated, eyes sharp as Geralt parried Eskel's sword strike, whipping his own sword round quicker than his size might suggest to lunge as Eskel's exposed side. Eskel blocked, just, and flung out a fist to catch Geralt's gut. They appeared evenly matched, spinning and whirling in the snow, until Eskel threw Igni to melt the snow beneath Geralt's feet and the white haired witcher stumbled just enough for Eskel to whip the sword up to his throat.

Geralt snarled and stalked away, but Vesemir nodded approvingly. "Eskel, Lambert. No weapons, no signs."

It was Lambert who won that next round; he came away with a split lip but Eskel tapped out with his arm twisted painfully across Lambert's thick thigh, both witchers soaked from wrestling in the snow.

"Good, Lambert. We'll finish there."

Flush with victory, Lambert offered Eskel a hand and drew him to his feet.

Heading inside, the young witcher brushed past Jaskier and wrapped an arm round his shoulders, apparently oblivious to his own split lip. "Well? What do you think of seeing witchers in action?"

"Terrifying," Jaskier said frankly, and Lambert snorted. He didn't smell of fear, though, just freshly drying sweat and tiredness, so Lambert tugged him a little closer before letting go. Jaskier staggered a little, but his face was pink and pleased.

"Couple more sessions with Vesemir and you'll be sparring with us."

"I'm sure it'll be delightful," Jaskier said weakly, but when Geralt patted him sympathetically on the back he didn't even flinch.

"C'mon. Baths. Then dinner."

*-*-*-*-*

Lambert was first into the springs, taking a running jump into one of the upper pools with a whoop, sending a great wave down the waterfall to the next level. Geralt and Eskel followed more sedately, and Jaskier awkwardly lingered by the door before slinking to the cooler pool and slipping his clothes off in silence.

After dunking his whole body under the water to sluice off the worst of the sweat, Geralt stood tall, stretching his arms out wide until his shoulder muscles twitched and juddered. Rolling his neck, he caught sight of the pool further down where Jaskier cut a lonely figure, his back to them in a pool made for a dozen people.

It seemed cruel to leave him out so clearly, and Geralt raised a brow at his brothers, jerking his head in a silent question.

Shrugging, Eskel bullied Lambert out of the water, and the three of them traipsed down to the lower pool, hair rising on their naked skin as the cooler air chilled them.

The water rippled against Jaskier's chest and he opened his eyes, jerking upright with a splash at the sight of three bulky witchers settling into the pool.

"Mind if we join you?" Eskel grinned, spreading out across the stone bench, taking up far more space than any one man had any right to.

"No - no, of course." Jaskier looked surprised, but pleased, a faint blush across his cheeks as the witchers settled around him.

At first he stayed quiet, running the soap across his skin with his head low and shoulders tense as Eskel and Lambert debated the merits of a crossbow versus signs for tackling a griffin, accompanied with wrestling when Lambert refused to concede his point. When they settled down, Jaskier dared to glance up at Eskel.

"I, ah, I seem to remember you said something about fighting a pair of griffins? How did you do that?"

Eskel's face lit up. "They were actually royal griffins, did you know there's a difference? Royal griffins are much bigger, much nastier-"

Geralt let himself drift, soothed by the sounds and scents of home.


	9. Eskel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get this one a day early as I won't be online tomorrow. The next update will be Friday, as usual.
> 
> I hope you've all enjoyed the healing - thank you for all the lovely comments, I'm genuinely amazed at how wonderful you all are.
> 
> Unfortunately these things do not always go smoothly, and Jaskier's had 6 years of cruelty and that won't go away so quickly, which means this and the next few chapters are a little rougher.

The barn was always surprisingly warm, heat funnelled up from the depths of the mountain to keep it toasty enough for even the chickens to survive. In years past it would have been full to bursting with herd animals, with most of the horses left in a bigger building beside the pastures. Now, it held just a handful of horses in stalls, with goats and a score of sheep and more chickens than anyone cared to count roaming free in the rest of the building, pecking idly at the straw.

Eskel let himself in, careful not to let any of the curious chickens escape, scooting one enterprising bird back with a gentle foot.

As his eyes snapped to dilate in the dim room, he was surprised to see a familiar slim body leaning on one of the stable doors, clearly in the middle of an intense conversation with Roach.

"Not you too," Eskel snorted, and Jaskier whirled to stare at him, alert but seemingly not surprised by his presence.

"What?"

"Geralt talks to that horse all the time. I swear he thinks she understands every word."

Face fond, Jaskier gently scratched Roach's neck, and she ducked her head to nudge at him. There was telltale slobber dripping from her mouth, and a faint scent of apple in the air.

"I thought it was about time I thanked her," he offered, his voice soft but clear, no longer roughened by three years of disuse, though he still seemed cautious, watching Eskel closely. "For carrying both of us when Geralt first found me. I don't think I was quite in the right state of mind to appreciate her, back then."

He gave her a last pat before rubbing his hands half-clean on his trousers.

"I'm sure she appreciates that." Not that she didn't get enough treats from Geralt coming out at all hours to dote on her.

As Jaskier's gaze flickered from him to the door, Eskel abruptly realised that he'd pulled the door shut when he entered, and now stood between Jaskier and the main escape route. Without being too obvious about it, he turned away to the feedstore at the opposite end of the stables, where a handful of chickens scurried after him and eyed him greedily as he checked the containers for signs of mice or rats.

Instead of making good his escape, Jaskier followed him, and as Eskel straightened up he felt the young man's presence at his shoulder. The chickens, losing interest now there seemed no chance of food, stalked away.

"Everything alright?" Jaskier's face was a little pale, his heart a little fast, and he was doing that peculiar rubbing motion with his fingers, the one he tended to do when he was nervous, seemingly checking the calluses or perhaps scratching at them.

"I never thanked you. For the collar." Jaskier touched his neck where it used to lie, fingers steady as his head tilted back to bare his throat, then brushed the same fingers over Eskel's casting hand with a tiny smile, tracing over the mountain ridges of scarred knuckles. "You used some magic, I think. And you were very reassuring. I remember being scared, and your hand on my shoulder, and when I woke up the collar was gone, and everything felt real again."

Eskel couldn't help but smile back at that small sign of improvement, at the gentle touch. "It was no big deal."

"It was to me," Jaskier said, and slid his hand up Eskel's arm to rest over his witcher-slow heart. "I only wish I could... repay you for your kindness."

Eskel covered the slim hand with his own, shaking his head gently. "I don't need repayment, Jaskier."

"Need, and want, those are two very, very different things..." and that hand drifted lower, over the taut muscles of Eskel's belly, over the scar where the royal griffin had opened him two months back, which he realised could be felt even through the shirt because Jaskier traced along it for an instant, and then all the way down to the waistband of his trousers where long fingers played a little with the ties, tugging and twisting.

The breath caught in Eskel's throat as he looked down at Jaskier, suddenly entranced in the depths of sky-blue eyes. Heart unexpectedly pounding he tentatively reached up, cupping a scarred hand around the freshly shaven jaw, and Jaskier leaned into it with a sigh. The edge of his thumb brushed, very gently, the soft divot at the corner of his mouth, and he could feel it move when Jaskier spoke.

"Let me be good for you, Eskel?"

He'd seen the lad looking in the springs, caught blue eyes watching him in the dusk of the common room, but he hadn't expected this, hadn't realised that behind that sweet face was someone who could _want_.

Instead of speaking Eskel shifted closer, dipping his head just enough that he could press his lips gently against Jaskier's, feel the soft plumpness of them as the young man moaned just a little and opened eagerly, tongue flicking out to tease as Eskel's hand drifted to bury itself in soft dark hair.

"Yes," he said breathlessly into that waiting mouth, "Yes, Jaskier."

Between kisses he pressed his mouth to Jaskier's neck, licking the crease under his jaw as clever hands cupped and fondled him far more intimately than he'd had in months, squeezing his hardness and opening the leather ties to drift inside.

At the feel of slim fingers wrapping around his cock Eskel let his head drop to rest on Jaskier's shoulder. He took a deep breath, inhaling the musk of arousal beneath straw and the animal scents, and-

"Why do you smell of oil?" Eskel lifted his head, sharp gaze searching the younger man's expression.

Jaskier's face creased a little, and he looked suddenly wary as the sultry veneer dropped for a moment. His hand left Eskel’s breeches and hovered uncertainly between them. "I... I prepared myself. I'm sorry, it makes it easier if there's oil."

Eskel swallowed hard, pulling his hand free of soft dark hair. It felt too much like he was holding Jaskier in place.

"If we ever fuck, that'll be part of it. You shouldn't be... scurrying around beforehand to prepare yourself."

"Oh," Jaskier said. "I'll remember. For next time." He looked briefly disappointed, though the expression was quickly wiped away into a coquettish flutter of eyelashes. "I can suck you, if you prefer? I'm as good with my mouth-" Eskel shook his head, gnawing his lip as a sudden lurch in his gut told him he'd read this wrong, all wrong, it hadn't been about lust at all, and the coy look faded into panic. "Or you can fuck me, it's still tight, I promise, but there's no blood-"

"No, Jaskier, _no_."

Scarred face twisted in something like disgust he pushed Jaskier back, too caught up to check his strength against the only non-witcher in the keep, and Jaskier went sprawling across the stone floor with a yelp, eyes wide and wounded, one arm coming up instinctively to cover his face for a second blow.

Eskel stalked away, only remembering at the last second to take care not to let any chickens out or shut them in the gap as he slammed the door shut.

Long strides ate up the ground as he headed to the training courtyard, jaw clenched tight.

Gut churning, he flung Igni after Igni around the yard, great blasts searing the snow away in vast gusts of steam, getting out his fury.

When he finally stopped, panting, he could hear the rush of blood in his ears, the trickle of snowmelt across the ground, and the too-fast patter of a little human heart, tucked behind him. Still breathing hard, he turned.

The strong wooden post by the castle walls had been part of the background scenery of life at Kaer Morhen, not used in years, decades, probably not since Eskel himself was a boy, and he'd never given it a thought, never seen the cruel thing in use.

A whipping post.

Now, for the first time he could remember, the rusted wrist restraints had been lifted from the ground and set just above head height, as high as Jaskier must have been able to reach.

It had to have been Jaskier who set them there, because it was he who currently stood beside it, bare to his waist in the winter air, gaze downcast.

Eskel took a pace forward, then another few at more of a stumble than a walk. Jaskier didn't lift his head, and Eskel noted with distant horror the horsewhip neatly folded at his feet.

It must be cold, now the blasts had faded, and he could see dark nipples like pebbles buried in the thick hair on Jaskier's chest, goosebumps rising as shivers chased over his skin.

He said, blankly, "You took your shirt off." It was neatly folded on the steps, on the dry strip down the middle worn by feet and scattered with grit for good measure.

Something in Jaskier's stoic face fell, but he wiped it away in an instant, gaze still fixed on the ugly whip at his feet. "Sorry - I thought I could save it from the whip, I liked it, but I can put it back on if that... if that's part of the punishment." He cringed away when Eskel reached out a hand.

"No."

He couldn't think how to follow that up, and with a sharp nod Jaskier turned to the post, lifting his hands up to the restraints, ready for them to be clasped shut around his thin wrists, his body stretched out for the blow of the whip. "I can't, ah, can't do them up myself. Or I can hold on if you prefer, but I might - I might let go." His voice quivered as much as the rest of him, and Eskel wasn't sure if it was fear or cold or some awful mixture of both. A scrape marred the blade of his right hand.

"Jaskier, stop! You're not being punished, I won't _whip_ you!"

Wrapping himself around the trembling body, he pulled Jaskier close, burying his face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the seaweed misery and ugly metallic fear and the unique scent of the young man, one he'd become so accustomed to picking up around the castle. One that hadn't been so saturated in fear since the earliest days of his arrival.

"I won't whip you, no one here will whip you, and you will never, ever be hurt here for preparing yourself for sex. Do you understand?" He squeezed tighter, and Jaskier's arms dropped from the restraints to lay against his, hands hesitant and fluttering before stilling. "Do you understand me, Jaskier?"

"You won't whip me."

"No. Never. I swear it."

"Oh."

They stood there for a long time, waiting for both of their bodies to calm down, adrenaline flooding Eskel's veins as much as it ran through Jaskier's.

Eventually a shiver broke Eskel out of his reverie. "Let's get you inside. It's freezing, you'll catch your death."

Jaskier nodded and pulled away, not making eye contact. It felt like regression, returning to the terrified wordless human that had arrived at the start of winter, but Eskel consoled himself with the extra padding of muscle that lay over the man's bones, at the neck unsullied by steel.

"I'm sorry," Jaskier said quietly.

"Don't be." Eskel paused. "You've told us a little but I'd... like to know more. About what happened to you." At Jaskier's expression he hastened to add, "Not all the details, not unless you want to share them. But just so I - we - have some idea what to expect. To avoid... misunderstandings."

Jaskier bit his lip, still pale and guilt-stricken, but eventually nodded.

Reaching down with a body that felt every day of his near-century age, Eskel picked up the shirt, Geralt's shirt, and brushed the salt and grit from it. Hands gentle, he eased Jaskier back into it, one arm at a time, and pulled it down over his belly, smoothing it against his hips.

When Jaskier's fingers shook as he tried to fasten it, Eskel batted his hands gently away, and they fell to his side as Eskel neatly looped the fastenings around the buttons.

Jaskier offered him a watery smile, then shivered with the cold.

"Inside. Come on, lad."


	10. A Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for a spectacular response to the last chapter - you're all wonderful, and I'm so glad it hit the whumpy buttons for so many people.
> 
> Please note this chapter has explicit violence and brief discussions of past rape.

Dinner was silent, the rest of the witchers picking up on the tension between the two of them, and Geralt kept shooting Jaskier looks that from anyone else might have been considered anxious.

As it was, when they got to their feet to retire to the common room Eskel nodded at the cask of ale. "Might want to bring that."

Jaskier took his usual seat beside Geralt, downing half his mug of ale before staring at the fire, the sound of his thumbnail scratching over his calluses audible over the crackling of the flames. They waited in silence, Eskel shooting a glare at Lambert when he went to open his mouth.

Eventually the lad gathered the courage to speak. "Eskel says... that I should tell you what happened. That it might help. And I don't think I want to talk about it more than once, so, so, this is it. Me."

Geralt tried to look encouraging without appearing too expectant; Vesemir's face was grim.

"I was eighteen. Well, I was fourteen when - though I suppose it was always..." Jaskier made a small sound of frustration. "I used to know how to tell stories but there's just so much of it, I don't know where to start."

He took another deep breath. "My father hated me. A lot of reasons, but partly because I reminded him of something he'd rather forget, and mostly because I was never going to be the son he wanted me to be. I was supposed to inherit, but I hated it. I wasn't cut out for staying in one place, I wanted to travel, find excitement. When I got the chance to leave for Oxenfurt university, I took it."

The witchers watched him closely, ale forgotten as Jaskier spun his tale.

"I did well. Really well. I lectured for a little while, and traveled; I thought my family might be impressed with it." He snorted a little. "Stupid of me. They met me at the door, beat the shit out of me and sold me, wretched and ruined, to the first man with coin."

*-*-*-*-*

At eighteen, Jaskier was all long legs and bright eyes, quick and easy with his smile and his hands and his heart, falling in love every other day.

Weighed down by the barest of belongings, he stood at a crossroad. Left to Posada, right to the much longer road to Redania and to the not-yet-signposted Lettenhove.

He sighed; tugged out a copper bit.

Flipped it.

Went right.

Ten days later, after a fortuitous ride on a merchant's cart cut the journey in two, the grey heights of Lettenhove manor lifted steadily over the horizon, and his heart flipped in his chest. He paused, ate the last of his bread with his eyes fixed on those familiar towers, and after lingering too long strode ahead determinedly.

Jaskier reached the outskirts of the keep as dusk fell, and talked himself out of presenting himself at the gates with the promise of walking in fresh-faced after a bath, the morning sun behind him, a dramatic return for the prodigal son. Instead he found an inn, paid for a bath, and scrubbed himself to within an inch of his life until his skin was pink and glowing.

What little sleep he managed was plagued with nightmares, and he spent the night tossing and turning, waking unhappily to sun through the shutters.

The innkeep paid him no more attention than he had the night before, but when Jaskier slid his pack and well-wrapped lute across the table he raised a brow.

"Just - keep them until my return." A silver crown followed them. "Please."

Something shifted in the man's face, a hint of recognition. "Master Julian?"

"The very same."

"Here to see the Count, I expect." The lute and pack disappeared beneath the counter, the innkeeper looking doubtfully at him.

He offered a smile, which felt unwelcome and stiff on his face. "Thank you. I'll return tonight, or tomorrow at the latest."

"As you say. Good luck, Master Julian."

Leaving the lute felt like leaving a child; it had been loyally by his side for nigh-on six years, but it would be safer there. Just in case.

The gates to the keep were open, though guarded, and he dipped his head to the guards. "I seek audience with your lord and master, the Count Alfred Pankratz De Lettenhove. You can tell him it's Julian, returned after four long years."

One guard looked at him in surprise, the other with blankness, but he was gestured to a side room and left to his own devices.

The room was cold and dull, clearly not designed for any visiting dignitaries, who would have been shown to the sitting parlour. The chairs were simple wood, no padding, and though they were well made and intricately carved, he didn't fancy resting on them, instead picking his way round the room to poke at the few tapestries.

Footsteps behind him snatched him away, and Jaskier turned to face them, smoothing his face into a polite mask as a tall man, dark haired and straight-backed, entered with a sweep of his cloak. His eyes were the same bright blue as Jaskier's own.

"Your Excellency," Jaskier said, bowing precisely as low and as long as was polite for a Viscount to bow to a Count, hand pressed to his heart.

"Julian." His gut lurched at the ice in the low tone. "I'm surprised you felt it appropriate to return."

Jaskier's response felt stilted, defensive, and yet he couldn't help the formality, back stiff and chin high. "I felt, father, that time might have given you perspective regarding my studies. I return to you a master of all seven liberal arts, and have lectured at the university as a professor of some renown."

A cry from the corridor interrupted his father's response, and they turned as one to the doorway where a beautiful, blonde haired woman stood with a hand over her mouth.

"Julian?"

"Mother," Jaskier said, softening a little, though still cautious. He sketched a quick, perfect bow, before to his relief her arms opened and he could stride forward into her embrace.

She was thin under his grip, smaller than he remembered, but perhaps it was he who had grown, while she had stayed the same as she ever was, save for the deeper wrinkles around her blue eyes. "My darling Julian. We thought you must be dead."

"Enough." The Count's voice dragged them apart, Jaskier forcing his shoulders down from his ears where instinct told him to cringe away. "I will not have some foolish student for a son. Will you be taking your position in the household, as duty befits you?"

"Father, I'm not simply a _student_ , I'm an eminent professor with-"

"I don't care!" The sudden roar made Jaskier flinch. "You were warned what would happen if you left, and what would happen on your return should you neglect your duties."

With a weak smile Jaskier glanced at his mother, though she stepped towards the Count, the same old loyalties clear in the possessive hand slipped into the crook of the older man's elbow, her adoring gaze up at him. Alfred had always had that power over her, and Jaskier felt a familiar pang of resentment that somehow he could never inspire the same loyalty in her, nor feel it himself.

"You can't still-"

"I am the lord of these lands, and you will cease your foolish activities or you will relinquish your title in favour of your cousin. Or will it be a duel?"

Jaskier swallowed, then held his head up high though his gut churned. "I will relinquish my title, father."

The Countess's rouged mouth twitched downwards in an unhappy grimace, before settling into neutrality.

"Very well. The paperwork is in my study."

He already had it drawn up? Jaskier shook his head but followed obediently, palms sweaty. The keep was familiar around him, every twist and turn of their stone walls seared into his mind from a childhood spent roaming the halls, though things looked dustier to his eyes now, more worn, and the dark corners no longer held mystery and intrigue.

The study felt as foreign as it ever had, off limits to Jaskier outside of the few occasions his father had taken him through the household accounts, and his trepidation grew once the doors swung shut behind them. It felt too much like a cage, trapping him in the heavy, still air, with judgement and long absence widening the vast space between him and his parents.

It was a shockingly simple thing to sign away his title, a dip of the quill in fresh blue-black ink and a neat flourish, sealed by a press of his signet ring in pooled red wax before he slipped it off and laid it across the thick vellum. Alfred was next, a neatly printed signature and a second press of wax in confirmation.

"Well," Jaskier said nervously, rubbing his hands together, "Now we've dealt with that unpleasantry, perhaps-"

His father's face grew even colder, and he pushed open the door. "Guard!"

"Wait, father - what's going on?"

"Take him to the stocks."

Jaskier scoffed a little, heart pounding. "Father, you can't be serious!"

"You will address me as Your Excellency or you will be silent!"

Icy fear trickling down his spine, he shut his mouth with a click of teeth.

The Count addressed the guard, ignoring Jaskier completely. "Take him to the courtyard, and strip him of his shirt."

Despite Jaskier's protests he was chivvied to the courtyard, though he didn't demean himself with anything so unbecoming as a struggle, eventually striding with his head held high. His chemise and doublet went to a guard, and he stood bare-chested in the centre of the courtyard, thankful that it was the height of summer. Thankful too, that apparently his father no longer felt like adding the humiliation of bare buttocks to a beating.

It was another hour before Alfred Pankratz joined them, by which time there was a thin sheen of sweat over Jaskier's skin and a faint suggestion of pink across his shoulders. Jaskier forced himself not to flinch at the sight of the thin switch in his hand, instead fixing his gaze on the elegant masonry where it sloped down to the courtyard.

At the noble's signal, a guard tugged Jaskier roughly to the stocks, shoving him to lean on the top rather than fastening him in, and though Jaskier gave his mother a pleading look where she lingered in the doorway there was no sympathy, just a faint air of disappointment.

He braced himself against the rough wood, feeling its sunwarmed heat against his chest as he wrapped his arms around it.

"Thirty strokes."

Jaskier jerked away from the frame, eyes wide. Thirty was cruel, was barbaric. "Father, _please-_ "

"Fourty, and you will not address me again or I shall have you hanged." The icy blue eyes dared him to speak again, and Jaskier wilted at the pressure, turning back to the stocks and resuming his position.

The vicious crack came first, the sound making him jump first before the agony bloomed, hot and sharp across his shoulders.

He'd vowed not to scream, he always vowed not to scream, but after ten strokes his lower lip was bloody, and by fifteen the thin sound in the back of his throat was building, building, building, a rising wave of terror and pain.

Somewhere between twenty and thirty he began to shout with each strike, sinking down to a low moan between blows but unable to keep silent as his knees all but gave in under the shock and adrenaline.

Thirty two, and he dropped to his knees; two grim-faced guards hauled him back up and draped him over the top of the stocks. Thirty five, and he was in the dust again, crumpled over legs that no longer had the strength to hold him as his back throbbed and throbbed.

Faintly, through the rushing tempest in his ears, he heard his mother's voice. "Alfred, he's had enough."

"He's had enough when he's taken forty damn strokes like a man. Lift him up, hold him if you have to."

He was lifted again, senseless, body limp.

The next four merged together, a blur as guards held him upright, angled away to stop the switch catching them. On the final blow, with what felt like all his father's strength, there was a vicious sharp pain from his collar bone as the thin branch whipped over the straining trapezius to split his flesh. Jaskier screamed with all the breath still in his lungs, a helpless whimper, as bone and switch alike broke in two.

He echoed the cry a second later as the guards let go and he dropped to the ground, insensate, clutching at his shoulder where the bone grated wetly under his fingers in white hot agony.

The shattered switch fell beside him, discarded.

Through a delirious haze, his mother's delicate blue gown approached, and he dreamt for a moment about feeling her cool hand on his brow, or seeing a glimpse of her face with mercy softening its planes.

Her voice didn't so much as shake.

"I love you, as you were once my son, but I am not proud of you. You have abandoned your duty and shamed your family."

"Mother," he sobbed, though the words were barely discernible through snot and tears and pain, "Mother, _please_."

"You are no longer welcome in Lettenhove."

She turned and left him in the dust.

It was hours before he was able to move, the sun beating down on him in the windless courtyard. The guards didn't help him, and though all he wanted was to leave the keep, he didn't have the strength. Instead he somehow hauled himself upright, staggering, and stumbled to his childhood room, where he'd always retreated after such things, hoping they would grant him this one final rest.

His father was determined to show no mercy. Before night fell there were guards at his door, tugging him to his feet. He was too worn to even flinch away when they jostled the broken bone in his shoulder, though they seemed to understand and treated it carefully enough.

"Healer," he said brokenly, through the pain that numbed his lips, "Need a healer."

"We've our orders, Master Julian."

Through the gates they went, and the whole time he'd half convinced himself that they were going to the village proper, to get the local healer to take a look, but when they let him sink back to the ground it was beside a handful of carts.

"From the Count," he heard. "Whatever you'll pay."

"What... what's..." Belatedly, Jaskier realised he recognised one of his guards, but as he blinked up at him the man blanched. "Sam."

He took in the carts beside them, the thick bars and the stench of urine, and the pitiful human beings locked within the cages. "Sam, no, no no, please-"

"Sorry, Julian, I'm sorry." Face conflicted, Samuel stepped away from his prisoner and from the slavers who were laughing and joking at the piteous specimen in front of them.

"Sam..." Hours spent playing in the keep, chasing each other in the stables. "Please, if our childhood meant anything..."

"He's watching. I can't."

"My lute, then - just bring me my lute. From the inn. Please, Sam." His voice broke, thin and worn, as he begged.

With the Count a hundred yards away it was a risk, but in the end Sam nodded, and left Jaskier in the dirt with the other guard by his side, though he couldn't stand let alone run.

Pankratz strode closer, ignoring Jaskier's pitiful form on the ground. "It was fortuitous, your passing," he commented idly to the slavemaster. "Don't know what I'd have done with him otherwise. Suppose you saved me the cost of a witcher contract. Or a burial."

Jaskier choked a little, his back flaring afresh at the old threat.

"Aye, well, always looking for new bodies. We'll take him, don't you worry, y'Excellency. Although," the man said slyly, "He is damaged. It'll cost us, for the healer, don't want him crippled."

"It's not about the money," Pankratz said coldly. "I just want him well away from here, and no chance of return."

A bag of coins changed hands and he turned and left for the keep, not looking back.

Paperwork done, Jaskier was hauled by two strong men into the back of one of the carts, head lolling heavily, too weak to do more than cry out. As they swung the door shut, Sam approached cautiously. "His belongings?"

The slavemaster looked unimpressed, but reached for the lute. "He plays?" He prodded at Jaskier through the bars. "You play?"

"Yes," Jaskier slurred. "'m good."

The gate opened again, his lute shoved in beside him. The pack went elsewhere, and he suspected he wouldn't see any of its contents again.

The relief of having his lute was overwhelming. He tugged it close, weakened arms closing around it, and as the horses moved off a wave of gratitude and grief dragged him into a fitful, exhausted unconsciousness.

He lost time; eventually he came awake beside a campfire with hands tugging his head this way and that. The agony at his collar and on his back was lessened, and when he reached for his collarbone the split flesh was knitted together under dried blood, though it still throbbed under his fingers.

In the dark, a cool smoothness settled around his neck, weighing far more than simple metal should, heaviness settling into his bones as the life of the world around him faded.

Everything after that was fuzzy.

*-*-*-*-*

Jaskier left out the worst of his father's words, and his pathetic pleading for the lute. No sense poking at a wound reopened now his mind was his own. He couldn't help but rub his thumb across his calluses, reminding himself they were still there, scratching with his thumbnail to preserve them just a little longer.

"Their mage put the collar on me, and after I'd healed up they sold me to a gang of brigands, they wanted someone to keep camp after the, ah, the previous lady left." He swallowed hard; there was more to that tale, but none of them wanted to pluck at a string that might unravel the man.

"It was nice enough for a time; keep the camp for them, mend clothes, cook, basic things. Bit of entertainment, though I couldn't manage much." Gods, he'd hardly had the mental capacity to play, or sing, never mind compose. Still, the experience wasn't exactly something he'd wanted to memorialise in song. "And there were two or three there, who - they'd be good to me, if I was good to them, you understand? Bring me little things back from their raids, new clothes or a sweetcake. It was nice. All I had to do was lay with them, and smile and look pretty."

"And if you didn't? If you said no." Geralt was almost impressed at how his voice didn't tremble.

Jaskier swallowed, scratched a thumb over his calluses, eyes darting around the room without meeting anyone's gaze. "They'd, uh - they'd have me anyway. Or they'd - beat me. And then have me. So it was easier to keep them sweet. And the collar, it kept me... fuzzy."

"You said it felt like being awake, when it was gone."

He nodded. "It was... like a dream. A really, really bad dream. Hazy. Easier to obey, than to fight. I never really... never really thought about escape?"

Vesemir chimed in, low and patient. "Likely some enchantment on the collar."

Jaskier nodded. The collar itself, the iron in the steel, probably hadn't helped either. "And then their leader died on some stupid raid, and we ended up joining another group, and their boss didn't, ah, didn't like me. He said they should... find another use for me." His voice cracked on _use_ , and he blinked back a sudden rush of tears. "It was - bad. And he paid a mage to stop me talking. Said I was lucky he didn't just slit my throat. I could... make noises, but that was almost worse, just grunting and whining like an _animal_."

He paused for breath, chest heaving, but eventually gathered himself to speak again. "I was there for three years, I think, mostly trying to stay out of the way and hope they forgot about me. I had... something that I'd brought with me, from before. It was - important. He sold it for a handful of silver."

It had been last winter, he thought, that the lute had finally gone. The only reason he still had any calluses left was the habit he'd developed of rubbing and scratching at them, part in reminder that he'd once had some place in life, part in the pathetic hope that one day he'd play again.

"Sold most things, really. He was good at thieving, and killing, but awful at cards. Then he played a game of Gwent one night, and was short of coin, and he - lost, to Mikolaj. Lost me. Like you play for the chore chits." Jaskier swallowed hard. "Mikolaj was better to me than the others. Didn't... When I was sore, he - let me use my mouth." An uncertain smile. "He was good to me."

Geralt thought he might vomit, for all that he hadn't thrown up in years, and when he tore his eyes away the other witchers looked equally ruined. Lambert's cheeks had taken on the flushed pink they went when he was truly furious, fists clenched and trembling in his lap, and Vesemir's jaw was ground so tightly it was a wonder his teeth hadn't cracked. Eskel's face had a carefully measured blankness that shuttered away every emotion, even from his brothers.

"And then a month later Geralt turned up, and I was payment for a job. Part payment. Worth less than whatever it was he sent you to kill."

Jaskier's face was distant, lost, and Geralt almost reached out to him before thinking better of it and pulling his hand away.

Vesemir spoke first, breaking the heavy silence. "You're safe now. You understand that?"

Jaskier offered a tremulous smile. "Starting to." He sighed, and looked at his hands where they twisted around each other, fingertips red from his distressed scratching.

"I think I'd like to go to bed now."

Once he'd crept away, Eskel told them what had happened in the barn, and in the courtyard. They sat in anguished silence until Vesemir left the common room, returning with a demijohn of white gull, at which point they proceeded to get quietly, morosely blind drunk.


	11. Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all darlings. Every comment, every kudos, makes me smile. I would never normally write chapter notes but goodness you're all so wonderful, I can't help myself.
> 
> There is genuinely a *queue* in my comments to kill / horribly maim Jaskier's dad, which honestly is more than deserved. 
> 
> Those of you so keen for Jaskier to get a lute, I suspect this chapter will not be quite what you had in mind.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me so far. This is the last of the real pain, the very last of it, be strong just a little longer.

Things seemed to ease after that, Jaskier a little lighter with his story told.

He was still skittish with every movement, and the handful of times he wanted something - paper; fresh ink when he ran out; fresh mint to chew on - it took him a few attempts to request it, and there was a thick scent of anxiety and fear each time he spoke up, but there were no more "thanks" offered, nor misunderstandings in the kitchen.

Vesemir's training had his previously lean muscle bulking up, though he'd never have a witcher's build, and the sparring gave him confidence, though Lambert's offer to wrestle had been met with wide-eyed refusal.

A few times Geralt caught the lad watching him with a naked curiosity, though his gaze always danced away when the witcher looked up. After a while he grew used to it, ignoring the prickles on the back of his neck that told him he was under scrutiny.

Jaskier seemed to tire less quickly now, with the collar gone and his recovery from his escape attempt behind him. He was still mostly absent during the day, outside of chores and training, but Geralt caught his scent in all sorts of odd areas of the castle, up towers and down as deep as the rooms for the Trials, though those were boarded up for everyone's peace of mind. He caught the lad's voice, too, often humming or talking to himself; sometimes in the mornings Geralt would wake up with an unfamiliar little tune in his head, and find himself humming it as he went about his day.

When their paths crossed one lunch time, Geralt absently humming as he carved fresh bread and smeared it with creamy butter and a drizzle of honey, Jaskier tripped and stumbled against the doorframe, staring openly as Geralt looked at him in bemusement.

"Sorry," Geralt said eventually, mouth full, when Jaskier didn't move. "I can go?"

That seemed to snap the lad out of his trance, and he shook his head. "No, sorry, just - recognised the tune."

Geralt swallowed, stepped away from the bread with the rest of his lunch, and Jaskier tentatively took his place.

Not feeling any urge to go back to his chores, the witcher lounged back against the table to eat, watching Jaskier prepare his own lunch, neat slices of bread and cheese. He was slim, but less gaunt than he had been so many weeks before, cheeks no longer hollow under eyes that had brightened, and shoulders that once had seemed narrow and frail had started to develop muscle. He'd suspected it, but it was still a surprise to realise they were nearly of a height, now Jaskier wasn't curling in on himself in an attempt to make himself smaller and less noticeable.

The burn on his neck had faded down to a thin red line, and he didn't flinch when Geralt moved past him to get a drink, though he did watch him out of the corner of his eye.

Lunch made, the lad settled at the table, picking through his food, and glanced up at Geralt. "Join me?"

The blue eyes were wide and guileless, and Geralt was helpless to resist, sliding onto the bench across from him, dropping his plate in front to pick at his meal, smearing honey from the plate and licking his fingers clean.

After a few minutes, Jaskier's warm scent had filled the room, and Geralt's nostrils flared. "You smell different."

Munching on his food, Jaskier shrugged. "Not done anything different. I washed this morning?" He sniffed dubiously at one armpit. "I can't smell anything."

It was as Jaskier bit into a fresh, crisp apple that Geralt realised it. Beneath the sharp floral notes of his soap he smelled of fresh sweat - likely from Vesemir's training - and the subtle spice of contentment. The seaweed reek of misery, the bitter tang of fear, were completely absent.

Perhaps it was being rescued from the trail so dramatically, and cared for so carefully, that had caused the change. Or perhaps it was telling the pack his story, getting the weight of his slavery off his shoulders. There was still more to the lad, still more that had gone unsaid, but perhaps that too would come out in time.

Whatever the cause, Geralt cast his mind back and realised it had been days, perhaps weeks, since he'd picked up the scent of fear.

There was something else new, a low, rich undertone that was steadily growing as Geralt stared and thought and sniffed.

"Never mind."

Arousal.

Faint, but definite.

And, he realised, not the first time he'd picked it up from the lad, though certainly the strongest.

Between bites of the apple, licking the juice carelessly from his fingers, Jaskier asked, "This place is so big - were there once more of you? Would it have been full of witchers?"

Had emotions not been seared from him in the trials, Geralt might have wept at the innocence in that question. Instead it just sat heavy on his chest, creeping up his throat and behind his eyes. It was a dull pain by now, anyway. "Once, yes. Full of witchers all year round, training the cubs."

"Children? They were born to be witchers?"

"No."

Jaskier didn't press him on that further, though Geralt could see the curiosity in his eyes. "This is the home of the wolf witchers? I read that there were others, other schools?"

That was an easier topic, tales of noble Griffins, cutthroat Vipers and acrobatic Cats - "You should ask Lambert to show you his Cat skills, he trains with them sometimes," - and Jaskier drank them all in, nodding, asking questions at just the right point to draw out details that Geralt might have ignored. He seemed fascinated with the different schools, and their training, and with the creatures they fought.

The scent of arousal faded down to almost nothing, but never really went away, not for the full hour they talked before Vesemir arrived and chivvied them both back to their chores.

*-*-*-*-*

It was a few days later when Lambert, after one of his regular jaunts up the towers to stare balefully down at the valley below, informed them at dinner that he'd seen a storm brewing, great heavy storm clouds building lazily in the distance.

"A big one," he announced between bites of the chicken stew, "Must be a hundred miles, and growing."

The next morning, with the blizzard closing in, they worked to get the animals squared away and any outdoor chores finished early, a breakneck pace to ensure they were battened down. The last of the tasks were ticked off by lunchtime, as the storm plunged the keep into darkness and Vesemir announced there would be no further chores for the afternoon, though he warned the witchers that training would resume in full the next day, indoors. All three of them groaned, but each knew it was only for show - there was nothing like fighting full on with a brother to test your limits, knowing you'd still be in approximately one piece at the end of the day, or at least by the end of the next one, and training indoors was better than not training at all.

Eskel retired to the common room with a book, and after a little caution Jaskier joined him with a volume lifted from Geralt's shelves, curled up on a separate couch but close enough that Eskel could hear him breathing and hear the rustle of the page turning. Each time he looked up Jaskier was apparently entranced, even the mug of ale beside him going untouched.

There was a little warmth in his belly at the thought that he'd somehow earned enough trust to have Jaskier relaxed and reading in the same room, apparently having completely forgotten his past fears. It was more than he'd had with any other human, and it soothed something in him to have it.

When Geralt returned from his own activity - from the smell of him, and the white glow of his hair, he'd yet again gone to lounge in the springs - Jaskier looked up with a bright eyed smile and patted the space beside him. Eskel hid his own smile, and let his attention ease back to the book.

With a glance at Eskel, who despite his best efforts couldn't hide amusement from his oldest friend, Geralt settled himself in the offered seat. It was comfortable, and unlike the other two residents he had no book to hand, so instead he slumped lower and lower until he could rest his head on the couch back, and then let his eyes drift closed.

Beside him, Jaskier edged a tiny bit closer, and one eyelid cracked open to look askance at him.

"You're warm," the young man explained, teeth glimmering in a half smile.

Geralt hummed. Moving slowly, he lifted his arm to rest it pointedly along the back of the couch, leaving a Jaskier-sized gap, before letting his eye drift shut again.

With an expression that suggested he was doing something incredibly foolish, despite the invitation, Jaskier let himself list sideways until he was pressed against the length of the witcher's side.

When there was no reaction, he relaxed a little and brought up the book, returning to his place in it with ease.

It took nearly an hour but eventually Jaskier was limp against Geralt's side, soaking up the remnants of the hot spring heat where it still thrummed through his thick body. There was the barest hint of arousal in the air, but stronger was the gratifying scent of contentment, rising warm and sweet like honey.

Mentally clapping himself on the back for such a clever plan - he'd finally learned that when it came to warmth Jaskier was as needy as any dog in search of a hearth - Geralt was sorely disappointed when Lambert's clattering entry chased away the relaxation in an instant, Jaskier tensing under his arm at the sudden sound.

"Look what I found down in the east wing, stashed in a cupboard."

Trying to hide his scowl Geralt turned to see their youngest brother wielding an instrument, pale wooden belly and strings leading up to a bent neck, yet another treasure he'd dug out from the depths of the keep.

"What d'you think?" Lambert waved it enthusiastically, wood creaking under his grip, and thrust it at Eskel, whose stoic face brightened.

"A lute! Gods, been years since I've seen one here. No idea who played that." He held it close, thick fingers clumsily forming some shape on the neck of it while the other strummed inelegantly, and winced at the sound it made. "It's so out of tune."

"Sure that's not your playing?" Lambert snickered.

"Fuck off, you wouldn't know music if it smacked you in the face."

Lambert was quick to demonstrate that other more corporeal things might very well smack Eskel in the face, and before long the instrument was discarded in favour of an all-out brawl on the rug.

Some time in, Eskel took a second blow to the face, but Lambert's balance was compromised and the larger witcher threw him into the seat where the lute rested, nearly sending it flying. Neither man took much notice, but beside Geralt, Jaskie was barely breathing, shallow and quick, all rigid tension and nerves.

"Knock it off," Geralt snapped, suddenly aware of the younger man's strain.

Lambert, half caught in a headlock and busy punching Eskel's left kidney to shreds, bared his teeth in a half feral grin. "Why, we disturbing you, princess?"

With more of a growl underlying his tone, Geralt stood, shedding Jaskier like a cloak. "I said _knock it off_."

Shoving Lambert away, Eskel shook his head. "He's right, it's not fair on Jaskier, he doesn't know what we're like."

Muttering under his breath, Lambert rolled his eyes but complied.

Mollified, Geralt settled back down. No sense in scaring the shit out of the lad, not when they'd been making such good progress. Still, Jaskier sat stiff and cautious next to him, a silent carving as he stared at a page of his book which surely held nothing fascinating enough to deserve such scrutiny.

He tried not to think about how nice it had been to have that slim body, admittedly all elbows and edges, relaxed against his side.

*-*-*-*-*

That night over dinner, as the freshly arrived storm raged outside, Jaskier sat closer to him than he ever had. At first Geralt thought it was just nerves over seeing the other two witchers scrap, though it hadn't really bothered him in the past, but when he was half way through his bowl of stew a thin leg pressed up against his and he half choked.

Vesemir looked at him in concern and he shook his head. "Went down the wrong way," he eventually rasped.

When he chanced a glance at Jaskier the young man looked at him warmly, and then that bright blue gaze sharpened into hunger. Across the table Lambert snorted and said something crude, Eskel kicking him under the table, and when Geralt looked back at Jaskier there was a sweet flush to his cheeks and a coquettish glint in his eye. He swallowed hard, and turned back to his stew.

After dinner there was Gwent, and wine, and Jaskier even drank a little of it, and Geralt was emboldened enough by this sudden breakthrough that he put a hand very pointedly on Jaskier's leg. He was met with a racing heartbeat and a quick gasp and his own heart lurched, but then a slim-fingered hand covered his and that pale face was split in a tentative smile.

He couldn't concentrate on the game, not with the little looks Jaskier kept shooting him from under his lashes and one filthy wink when someone played Commander's Horn, which against all odds managed to bring a rush of heat to his cheeks. Eventually he threw his cards down with a scowl, taking the chore chits from the table with a disgruntled look at Eskel. "I'm going to bed."

Behind him Jaskier stood and trailed after him, pursued by Lambert's obnoxious wolf whistle.

When they were far enough down the corridor that the other witchers wouldn't hear them, Geralt pulled up short. "You don't... have to do this. Do anything. I'm not expecting anything from you." He didn't want gratitude, like the boy had offered Eskel, or service, as he'd offered Lambert. Only what was freely given, and wanted.

Jaskier smiled, and it was wide and pretty and took Geralt's breath away. "I want to."

"Good," Geralt said, and then "Good" again because he couldn't think of anything else, but Jaskier slipped a hand into his and curled their fingers together like they were meant to be there, before leading them to Geralt's room in silence.

He couldn't quite believe it, couldn't believe that he'd somehow managed to get through to Jaskier, to help him recover enough for him to ask for what he wanted, to let him think he could have this, and the warmth of it burned in his chest.

His bedroom door closed behind them with a clunk, and before he could say anything the younger man was crushing him against it, mouth hot against his, tongue sweeping over his lips to lick inside and taste, and it was probably the best - certainly the filthiest - kiss Geralt had ever had.

He let it go on forever, let Jaskier drink his fill, took his own pleasure from running hands over slim arms and strong back and down to that softly curved arse, enjoying the little gasp when he took a double handful and tugged Jaskier tight against him.

Parting to take a breath, Geralt asked quietly against plump lips, "What do you want?" He didn't want to push, didn't want to take it any further than Jaskier wanted, but from the little bucks of Jaskier's hips he was pretty sure he wouldn't be spending the night alone.

He lifted his hands from Jaskier's arse, stroking soothingly down the younger man's arms as the beautiful blue eyes danced down his body; as much as he wanted to take pity and start offering options it was important that Jaskier made his statement, ask for what he wanted. There would be no misunderstandings here, as there had been with Eskel.

Finally the lad mustered the courage to make his request, between sucking bruises into Geralt's neck.

"Anything," Jaskier breathed into his skin. "I'll do whatever you want. Just. Please. Let me have the lute."

Geralt froze for a moment, then threw him back, hands tight on slim biceps as he stared in open mouthed horror. "You just wanted to fuck me to get a damned _instrument_?"

Jaskier's thin face suddenly went desperate, twisted from something Geralt realised was only ever a mockery of hunger into real need, and he dropped to his knees, hands clutching at Geralt's hips. "Just let me have it - you can do what you want, take my arse, do it dry, hit me, I don't care, I'll crawl for you, just please, let me have it-"

Geralt stepped back, shaking his head, an empty pit in his stomach. "No. No, gods, Jaskier-"

The boy crumpled in on himself, arms wrapped around his waist as he keened, the thin high wail of an animal in pain.

Geralt fled.


	12. Retreat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have ruined you all. I'm sorry (I'm not).
> 
> Thank you for all the wonderful feedback, it's genuinely been incredible to read all your comments.
> 
> I hope the steady recovery for the rest of the fic soothes frazzled emotions <3

When the awful gut churning nausea had receded a little, and his head wasn't spinning with confusion and betrayal and disgust, Geralt crept down to the common room.

His brothers had seemingly retired, with long hours having passed since he first left with Jaskier, and the fire had died down to embers and ash. The lute still sat discarded to one side, unknowing of all the hurt it had caused.

Its neck was small and delicate under his hand, and he held it as though it was some fragile bird trapped between his hands, held tight to keep it safe but loose enough not to crush it with too-strong witcher fingers.

Silent in the empty corridors he made his way to his room, standing outside as the rotten seaweed reek of salt-rimed misery filled his lungs. He could hear the light breaths of the man inside, clearly asleep but just as clearly brought to despair.

Crouching down, he laid the lute against the opposite wall, where Jaskier would see it when he left but not where it would be at risk of damage. For the lad to go through such agony over it, it must be a precious thing indeed.

Deed done, he backed away, needing to go somewhere away from the pain he'd somehow caused. There was only one place he could go, and he wound the familiar path through the keep until he stood outside the door.

Geralt rested a hand flat against the wood, debating with himself. As he took a breath and curled his hand up to knock, a soft voice called from inside. "Don't just stand out there, I can hear you thinking."

The door opened easily under his hand, always had, and the room inside was lit cosily by the dying fire. Golden eyes watched him from the pillow, but narrowed a little as he wavered in the doorway.

"Eskel," he said miserably, voice choked and rough, and that was enough to have the other witcher sitting up and inviting him close, as they hadn't done since they were boys. 

He curled in his brother's arms, held tight as his heart pounded through his chest, tears that would never fall gathering in his eyes as he breathed in the familiar scent.

Eventually one of them fell asleep and, soothed by the even breaths and steady heartbeats, the other soon followed.

He awoke tangled in Eskel's arms, heart heavy, and it took him a moment to remember. He couldn't help but groan a little under his breath, which of course was enough to wake Eskel too.

His brother patted his back and then tugged the blankets close to fend off the chill of the room. A quick flash of Igni had the fire burning merrily again, voraciously eating up the last of the embers.

"Want to talk about it?"

Geralt grunted, and buried his face deeper into Eskel's shoulder.

"Was it whiskey dick? Because-"

"It wasn't fucking whiskey dick!" Face burning furiously, Geralt added, "He only wanted to fuck me for the lute."

"Oh. Shit."

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"He was pretty fucking clear about it."

"Oh."

They lay there in silence, Eskel slowly stroking Geralt's hair where it spilled across his bare shoulders.

"I mean you could-"

" _Eskel_."

"Sorry. Bad joke. Bad idea. I thought he'd got over that after trying it with me. I'm sorry."

Geralt groaned again. "What do I do?"

"The hell should I know? He thought I was going to whip him. Least Lambert has that Cat half the time, I've not had an actual _relationship_ in years. Maybe Vesemir..."

"I'm not asking Lambert! Or Vesemir." He thought for a minute, then ground out, "Fuck."

Eskel nodded sagely.

"Fuck, I've got to tell Lambert I gave away his new find." Geralt ground his palms into his eyes in impotent frustration.

"Wait - you gave Jaskier the lute?"

Geralt lifted his head to stare at Eskel's eyes, so similar to his own. "You should have heard him, Eskel, it was just... it sounded like he was _dying_. And he was so desperate, begging me..." He shivered. "I had to."

Eskel sighed. "I'd have given him it too."

They lay abed a little longer, before Eskel patted him on the back. "Time for breakfast, if we want anything before training."

Geralt hummed, but slid out from under the blankets, face blankly miserable.

Despite their talk, they beat Lambert to the kitchen, faced with only Vesemir and two ladled bowls of porridge. He eyed Geralt, then shook his head. "I'll take something up to the lad. Meet you in the training room."

Geralt had to swallow against a lump in his throat before he could croak out a thank you, and Vesemir ladled porridge into a third bowl, adding generous portions of honey and dried figs before leaving with a curt nod.

The two witchers were half way through their breakfast before Lambert sallied in late, giving Geralt an obnoxiously obvious once-over. "No Jaskier? You broke your little toy the first night?"

"Shut up," Eskel hissed, casting anxious eyes at Geralt, but the white haired witcher shook his head.

"I fucked up," he said frankly. "He still thinks he can use sex as payment. I won't have it."

Lambert opened his mouth, ready with some stupid quip, and Geralt snapped out, "And nor will you."

His demeanor was fierce enough that Lambert was cowed into silence, ladling out his breakfast without comment and shovelling it into his mouth eagerly.

"I gave him that lute," Geralt confessed, defiantly unrepentant.

He half expected anger from the notoriously short fused witcher, but Lambert just shrugged. "If he wants it, it's his."

Geralt ducked his head in thanks, before clearing his throat. "Best get to the training room, or he'll have us training outside snow or no snow."

Lambert groaned, and shoved the last spoonful of porridge into his mouth with alacrity, promptly speaking with his mouth full. "Remember that time Eskel ended up in a snowdrift and used Igni to get himself out? Fucking stupid idea, you were drenched."

"Thanks for the reminder. I'm not keen to repeat the experience, now get a move on!"

*-*-*-*-*

Vesemir tried Jaskier's room first, but before he even raised a hand to knock on the door he could tell it was unoccupied, no tell-tale human heartbeat behind the wood. Geralt's room was the obvious next place, but that too was empty. The scent of the lad, the spicy-sweet bergamot and the seaweed misery undertones, led him up to the north tower, winding up the stairs.

Mid way up he paused, a quiet sound reaching his ears. The faint strains of a lute, and even to his uncultured ears it sounded beautiful.

With faint relief and the smallest curl to his lips he took the rest of the steps at a steady pace. 

The lad wasn't outside on the wall, as he'd first feared, instead locked away in one of the mage's private rooms, not quite at the top of the tower.

When he knocked the lute went silent, and he could hear the heavy sigh as Jaskier debated with himself, and then a rustle of fabric that suggested he was getting to his feet.

"Geralt, I- Oh. Vesemir." Jaskier blinked at him in surprise, expression going from contrition to confusion.

"I brought you breakfast." He didn't explain that Geralt hadn't known if he'd be welcome, or that he'd shown up for his own food a miserable wreck.

"Um. Thank you." Jaskier took the bowl cautiously, looking at the sticky golden honey swirled into it as though it might hold the answers to all his troubles. The fingertips on his left hand were red and worn, nails gnawed short. "Did he say..."

Vesemir shook his head. "Nothing. But I've lived a long time, lad. A very long time. I've seen a hell of a lot, more than I'd ever wanted to see of a world that can be... cruel." Seen the way some people could never leave imprisonment or war behind, carrying lessons with them forever in the way they flinched or hoarded food or held their clothes across bare skin. Humans, mostly, but there had been the odd witcher too damaged for even the mutagens to fix.

"I've seen hundreds of witchers pass through these walls, and Geralt's one of the best of them at heart. You should give him a chance to prove himself. Not," he held out a cautionary finger, "Not as your captor, or your saviour, or anything of that ilk. But as a friend, with no malice or duplicity in him. Take him at true face value. Eskel, and Lambert too, for all his faults."

Jaskier swallowed, and after a moment whispered hoarsely, "It's so hard. Trusting again."

"I know, lad. I know. And I know witchers aren't always the easiest to trust, not even for humans. But no harm will come to you here, I swear it."

They stood in silence, Jaskier's heart hammering but slowing. Eventually Vesemir shifted away from the door frame. "I better get down to them before they start doing damage. Oh-" He held out a hand, flicking the sign for Igni, and Jaskier's wary face softened into a grin as the bowl in his hands warmed and the smell of burnt sugar filled the air, a tiny scorch mark forming on the surface of the porridge. "Don't get cold, you hear? And make sure you eat."

"I will. Thank you, Vesemir."

Vesemir grumbled, waving a hand to dismiss the very sincere thanks, and went to find witchers to torment.

*-*-*-*-*

Vesemir took him a portion of dinner that night, finding him in his room rather than the tower, which he deemed sufficient progress. The next day he must have crept down for breakfast while the witchers were training, as there was a hint of his scent when they tumbled into the kitchen for food afterwards, sweaty and bruised and still thrumming with the rush of the fight.

After dinner, when Eskel was ladling up the leftover food onto a fifth plate for Vesemir to take upstairs, Lambert caught his arm. "I'll take it."

Eskel eyed him, trying to judge if he was going to attempt to be a jerk, but the expression on Lambert's face convinced him, as did the bottle of wine he pulled out from under his shirt. "I was saving it, but..." He looked uncharacteristically embarrassed.

"I won't tell anyone," Eskel reassured him.

Lambert was gone a long time, and when he returned to the common room the other witchers turned to him with naked curiosity.

"He's... playing. It's nice." He shrugged. "Oh yeah, and he says he's sorry. He's trying to sort some things out in his head."

Geralt nodded, and some small tension in his face lifted.

*-*-*-*-*

It took a week for the storm to completely blow itself out, but when it had finally passed it gave way to a bright, crisp winter morning, snow piled up twice the height of a man around the walls, muffling every step and cry. Two hawks called shrilly from the upper pastures, taking advantage of the clearer weather.

As they sat down at the kitchen table for breakfast, a light pair of footsteps - though not as light as that of a witcher - made them turn. Jaskier, looking a little wan, but with a nervous smile flickering on his face, hovered in the doorway. "May I join you?" he asked.

"Of course, Jaskier. Please." Vesemir waved a hand at the table.

There was plenty of space along the benches, and Geralt tried not to look too hopeful, but he couldn't help the slight pleased twitch to his lips as Jaskier sat next to him. Not touching, but close enough to make it clear he wasn't avoiding him.

Vesemier indicated the pan of porridge sat in the middle of the table, the wood decorated with grey blobs where the witchers had carelessly ladled their own portions. "Help yourself."

Still hesitant, gaze flickering uncertainly around the witchers, Jaskier ladled out his porridge, adding the figs and honey as the witchers pointedly didn't stare at him. He handled everything carefully; the fingertips on his left hand were bruised and reddened.

Geralt was the first to break the awkward silence, clearing his throat. "You've been playing?"

Mouth full of porridge, Jaskier nodded. "It's - it's a nice lute. Someone must have paid a lot for it, once. It's well treated, too. Well loved."

The silence was no less awkward, and Lambert was the next to speak. "It's yours," he said gruffly. "No one else has any use for it."

"Well. Thank you." The sincerity in Jaskier's voice was almost painful.

It wasn't an entirely comfortable silence, and Geralt was even more aware of his body than usual as he kept well clear of Jaskier's personal space.

When they'd finished, Vesemir stood, hands heavy on the table. Eskel went to get up, but the quelling look had him promptly sat again.

"There have been some misunderstandings," the old witcher said, quiet and serious, gaze flickering from witcher, to human, to witcher. "For the absence of any doubt - in this castle, you may fuck who you please, when you please, as long as everyone involved is fully consenting. I _will not have_ anyone, _anyone_ , fucking out of gratitude, or obligation, or payment, or any reason other than desire."

He stared pointedly at Lambert. "If you want to bet your own body because you're out of chore chits when you're playing cards, you're a fool, but that's your own poor judgement. And it's still your right to say no."

Lambert crossed his arms and scowled, but didn't offer a retort.

"Jaskier. That means you too. If you want something, ask for it; if we can give it to you it's yours. And if you think for one moment any of these louts are pressuring you, you come to me. Understand?"

Bright red, staring at the tabletop, Jaskier nodded.

"Wolves?"

"Yes, Vesemir."

"Right. Now by the gods, don't make me have to bring this up again, I am too old for this shit." He stomped away, shaking his head.

As if on cue, the witchers stood, though Jaskier stayed seated and kept his gaze fixed on the table, still pink to the tips of his ears, as the three of them rinsed their bowls.

"Geralt," he said quietly, raising his gaze enough to catch him in the doorway.

With a consoling pat on the back, Eskel and Lambert left Geralt to stand awkwardly in front of Jaskier.

Jaskier didn't seem eager to speak, but Geralt waited in silence for him to gather his thoughts.

"I'm sorry for the misunderstanding," Jaskier eventually whispered, voice a little hoarse. "I seem to be doing a lot of that, these days."

Geralt suddenly felt a rush of affection for the man, who had done nothing to deserve his lot, and who certainly hadn't asked to be trapped in a run down castle with four witchers.

"Six years is a long time. You won't heal in one winter."

"I can hardly remember most of it," Jaskier groused, then took a deep breath. "Still. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried to... manipulate you like that."

There wasn't much Geralt could say to that, so he just nodded. There was a long silence. Jaskier's heart beat a merry tune, high and fast and nervous, and he stared down at the table, tracing a knot in the wood with an undamaged finger.

"If it wasn't... if it wasn't for the lute. Would you?"

"Would I want you?"

"...yes." He looked pale, and guilty, and a little hopeful.

"Yes. Maybe. I don't know."

Jaskier frowned, confused and unhappy. "What does that even mean?"

It meant he didn't know if even witcher senses could tell him if Jaskier didn't want it, and he wouldn't risk that. Wouldn't risk trauma on trauma on trauma. "It means maybe. If I want it, and if you want it, and there's no good reason not to."

That seemed to give Jaskier a lot to think about, and Geralt left him to his silent thoughts.


	13. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aren't we glad Dad!Vesemir has given them all a verbal smack?! There is a least one brain cell in Kaer Morhen.
> 
> This one's a bit sad, but hopeful too.
> 
> Content warning for brief discussions of past rape.

Jaskier had been quiet ever since they'd talked so openly in the kitchen. He didn't join the witchers in the baths after training, though he'd at least started to join the sessions again, and hurried back to his room each evening to play his lute. Their few conversations had been wary; he'd picked his words with care, watching for every reaction, seemingly more confused with every interaction.

For the first time since then, he'd settled in the common room after lunch, feet curled under him as he read a book, rather than retreating to his room or exploring the castle.

After finishing the last of his own afternoon work, Geralt sat across the common room from him. He slumped into an armchair that by all rights belonged to Vesemir, but the old man wasn't there right now and Geralt wasn't going to turn down a chance at comfort in his own home. Lounging back, it was a luxury to feel the plush cushions absorb him after a morning of training, soothing the ache in his ribs where Lambert had landed a sneaky kick from behind.

From the other side of the fireplace he heard the slightest intake of breath, not enough to be a gasp but certainly some indication that his presence wasn't entirely welcome. There was a subtle spice to the air, too, something sharp that bit at the back of his throat when he inhaled. Anger, he thought. Fury.

After a while, as Geralt pointedly buried himself in his own book, the breaths steadied and returned to the even pace he'd listened to from the doorway.

Half a chapter of the bestiary and he could feel his eyelids drooping, the warmth of the fire and the pleasantry of the ache receding from his body as witcher healing did its job enough to lull him towards sleep. He blinked once, slow and heavy, and cast his eyes over to Jaskier where the lad had apparently given up on his book in favour of staring at the witcher, an unreadable expression on his face. As their gazes met, his face twisted into anger and he stood, dropping his book aside with a thud.

Geralt shook himself awake, banishing the sleep from his bones - he wasn't really tired, just laziness and luxuration dragging him under - and forced himself upright, trying desperately to keep his body language open and inviting despite every molecule of him screaming that what was in front of him was a threat.

Striding across the space between them, Jaskier threw his arms wide, voice projecting through the room in a furious shout.

"What do you _want_ from me?!"

It echoed back from the rafters, settled softly back around them.

"You bring me here, you feed me, you clothe me, you give me a gods damned _lute_! What do you _want_?!"

"I want nothing," Geralt said softly, not stirring from his seat. He'd expected rage, at some point. Once the lad was comfortable enough to speak his mind without fear of retribution, in whatever form that might take.

Jaskier scowled, but at least lowered his voice, folding his arms mulishly. "I don't believe you."

"I swear it, I have everything I need from you."

The lad scoffed, looking away for a moment, eye contact still a challenge, but forced himself to confront the witcher head on, distrust and confusion writ large on his face. "What could I possibly give you? If it's not fucking, what could I ever offer?"

Friendship. A handsome face. A sweet voice. A surprisingly sharp tongue, and a quick wit to match. Surely it should be the other way around, Jaskier seeing nothing in an old, scarred witcher.

"You aren't afraid of me. Not any more."

The handsome face, not so thin nor so bruised as when they first met, softened. "All you've done is protect me," Jaskier said quietly. "Even when I was half out of my mind, even when I tried to fuck you. Why would I be afraid of you?"

Geralt let out a huff of bitter laughter. "Ask any other human, I'm sure they'll tell you. Witchers are as monstrous as those they kill."

"I might have thought that when I first met you, and when you got the collar off and my mind was my own again. But _other humans_ treated me like shit. You, Geralt of Rivia. You rescued me from that shitty tavern, you dragged me up that damned trail when I was a heap of bones, and you brought me to your home, and you cared for me until I was well, and even now you somehow want nothing from me. You might look a little intimidating at times, but you are far from monstrous." Jaskier's voice softened as he spoke, and with the anger bled from his body, he eased himself down onto the wider seat next to Geralt's armchair. It was less padded but there was more room to sprawl, as Lambert so often did, and there would be room for two.

Screwing up his courage, Geralt waved at the space beside Jaskier. "May I?"

Still a little pink from his proclamation, the bard nodded.

Surrendering the armchair, Geralt slid in beside Jaskier, coming to rest with his elbows on his knees and his hands draped between them, head heavy. His leg, thick with muscle and the good winter food Vesemir cooked, pressed against Jaskier's thinner limb, though even he had a suggestion of muscle and a thin layer of padding above that; long hours of training and exploring the keep had built up a body worn down by malnutrition and despair.

They sat there for a long time, until Jaskier's breath had settled down into an easy rhythm and Geralt had found his tongue.

He clenched and unclenched a fist, then took a deep breath. "Why did you keep trying to get in my bed?"

When he glanced over Jaskier looked up at him from under dark lashes, a sultry smile on his face. Geralt scowled. "Don't do that. I want honesty."

Jaskier held it a second longer, then let it drop into blankness and looked away. "You seemed - nice. And if you claimed me, the others wouldn't touch me, I'd be _yours_."

"And?" Geralt prompted. It was never just one thing, with this man, it was layers upon layers of a clever mind playing tricks on itself, cruel lessons twisted far beyond their original bounds as he tried so hard to deal with the hand fate had heartlessly dealt him.

Haltingly, Jaskier added, "And even if you didn't keep me for yourself, if you shared, it's still a way to get things I want."

"Like the lute," Geralt said.

"Like the lute."

In the heavy silence Jaskier pulled his legs up on the seat, curling his arms around them as though seeking comfort, resting his chin on his knees. Geralt didn't speak, sensing the bubbling under the surface, but risked reaching out a hand to rest it at the back of Jaskier's neck, rubbing over it with a coarse thumb as the young man gathered himself. His skin was very soft.

After a while Jaskier lifted a hand to Geralt's shirt, plucking helplessly at the dark fabric over his chest. Eyes pleading, before he looked away in shame, he asked, "Can I...?"

With a hum Geralt tugged him closer, wrapping an arm around shoulders that were stiff under his touch, and Jaskier shifted to lean against him, speaking into the hollow of the witcher's neck.

"I used to..." His head sank lower, burying his face in Geralt's chest, cheeks hot. "I used to love sex. Love fucking, love the flirting and the fun of it. Mostly women, but some men. And when I was sold... then it was a bargaining tool for food and favours, and then it was just... taken. When they wanted it." He took a deep, quavering breath. "It's not _fair_."

Gut clenching with fury and sorrow Geralt kissed the top of his head, running a strong hand over quivering shoulders. "It wasn't fair. Not at all. I'm sorry, Jaskier."

A wet sob rose from his chest, where Jaskier's face and hand were fisted in his shirt. "Me too."

He wept silent, burning tears as Geralt hushed him, and rocked him, and held him tight.

When he was finally limp and exhausted, he lifted his head and met Geralt's gaze with red-rimmed eyes, his face determined.

"I've told you about being sold. I want to tell you about who I was. Who I wanted to be."

In the dusty hall, fire crackling beneath a voice that rang with tears and determination, Geralt held him close as Jaskier spoke of hearing a lute for the first time and being entranced; of wearing his fingers raw in the first clumsy months of learning, and then treasuring those calluses as the first honest thing a spoiled noble boy had ever earned.

He told Geralt how he had left home, vowing to study and be a great travelling musician, of becoming a master of all seven liberal arts and sharing what he loved with others as a professor. Of leaving the university to travel, knowing he needed more than a rich upbringing to connect his music with the world, not content with theory and imagination.

The origin of his name, of Jaskier, of _Dandelion_ \- a pretty weed, resourceful and persistent, with the most delicate of seeds carrying on the winds to spread far and wide. The hope that his songs would carry, likewise, throughout the continent, spreading hope and happiness and comfort. Something he could choose for himself, with no ties to his parents, to his father, though they grew liberally in the fields he'd once played in as a child.

He told of a quest to find heroics and destiny, of his dreams of composing music for kings and queens and commoners alike, of performing on stage at feasts and festivals, of hearing his music hummed in the streets.

Eventually Jaskier drifted into silence, voice rough as it hadn't been in weeks. They sat and listened to the fire, the distant sounds of clattering plates in the kitchen announcing they weren't alone.

"What happens now?" Jaskier whispered.

"Dinner," Geralt said bluntly, and the younger man snorted.

"After dinner, then."

"Sleeping."

" _Geralt!_ " It was the first time Geralt had heard him take that half-playful, half-scolding tone, a seam of amusement running through it despite his frustration, and immediately he was enamoured with it. Somehow the witcher managed to sober himself, aware that some of his reaction was tied up in relief, and brushed the remnants of tears from Jaskier's pink cheeks.

"Next is... whatever you want. We can be friends, or strangers, or lovers, if you want. But I want you to make that choice."

There was a very long silence split only by Jaskier's loud breaths, and Geralt bit fretfully at a nail, trying not to say anything.

"What if I'm not sure?"

"We have time. You're young, and I'll live a long time yet."

They sat in silence, broken by the occasional crack-hiss of damp in the firewood bursting into steam.

A lute-callused hand slid between them, twining around scarred fingers as Jaskier rested his head on Geralt's strong shoulder, their clasped hands on Geralt's wide thigh.

When Vesemir called them for dinner, Geralt stood and gently tugged Jaskier to his feet. He lifted his free hand, and when Jaskier just gave him a tentative smile he ran his fingers through Jaskier's hair to flatten it. "There," he said, as Jaskier's smile widened. "Much better."


	14. Geralt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating bumped up to Explicit, for (consensual!) scenes.
> 
> A little nervous about this one, hence the slight delay. Hope you like it!

It was perhaps ten days later when, as they headed to the common room after dinner, Jaskier's hand caught at Geralt's sleeve and pulled him aside. Lambert and Eskel lingered for a second, Lambert looking mischievous and eager, Eskel fascinated and sniffing unsubtly at the air, while Vesemir had taken one look at the four of them and stalked away, grumbling under his breath.

Geralt could hear the bard's racing heart, even if his nerves hadn't been immediately obvious in his expression and in the flush high on his pale cheeks. How he'd made it through dinner without making it obvious that he'd had something to ask, he had no idea. Perhaps it had only occurred to him as they nibbled on the sweetcakes Vesemir had made; perhaps it had been the dribble of honey Geralt had licked from his thumb.

After a second of silence where Jaskier's gaze flickered between the three remaining witchers with increasing desperation, Eskel chimed in helpfully, "We're just leaving," and slunk off, dragging Lambert with him. The youngest witcher offered Geralt a filthy leer as they left.

When they were long gone, Jaskier met his gaze squarely.

Out of nowhere Geralt was reminded of the stableboy in Toussaint, who had looked at him with such hunger while his knees trembled and shook as he suggested that the witcher might want to fuck him silly in the empty stall next to Roach. Jaskier's knees weren't trembling, but the stubborn set to his jaw, the scent of nervousness edged with arousal, was just the same.

"I want to have sex."

He couldn't help his snort of amusement. "Those legendary flirtation skills at work, I see."

"Geralt. I mean it." It sounded like truth, well enough. Though he'd been fooled before.

"And you don't want anything."

"Nothing. Just you."

He raised a skeptical brow, and Jaskier sighed. "I just want to see if it's still... if I can still... enjoy it. I've... you know." His face, already pink, darkened further, and he twitched a hand in an eloquent gesture, "And that's _fine_ , more than fine, it's _great_ , but with someone else..."

After a long moment, Geralt nodded, jaw tight. "Your room, then."

Jaskier's relief was almost palpable. "Please."

It was awkward, trailing after Jaskier through the echoing corridors, but the tension in the lad's shoulders was enough to stop him from trying to make light of their journey.

The door closed behind them with a thud. Geralt crouched briefly at the fireplace, where Jaskier had neatly laid the fire, before folding his arms and looking impassively down at the bard. "Well?"

Face conflicted, Jaskier rested a long fingered hand on the witcher's bare forearm, gaze flickering between Geralt's chest, the bulk of his arms, back up to his lips, and finally daring to meet his eyes for an instant before he looked away. "Can I kiss you?"

"Kiss, fuck, I don't mind." He shrugged.

The tremulous smile dropped for a second, and Geralt relented. "I don't know what you want from me, and I don't want to fuck this up. You lead, I'll follow." His voice was gruff, but better to scare the lad off now than to have him doing something he'd regret later.

"I - I don't know if I can do that." Jaskier's hand was trembling against Geralt's skin, and he pulled it away, clenching it into a fist at his side. "Can't you... please?"

Unfolding his arms, Geralt stretched out his own hand, resting his fingers gently along Jaskier's jaw. "Can I kiss you, then?"

At Jaskier's brief nod he leant forward, pressing their lips together. Not like last time, all heat and desperation; instead close-mouthed, slow and gentle, just long enough for Jaskier to feel the pressure, to get used to it and unwind a little. His lips were rough, and a little damp where he'd licked them nervously, but they were warm and firm and sweet under his touch, his breath rich with honey and ale.

Pulling away, Geralt looked the bard over with a heavy gaze, scenting the air to check for any fear or unease. Nothing but arousal, and Jaskier licked his lips again.

"Okay?"

"Yeah," Jaskier breathed, a little more confidence in his smile. "Again?"

The second kiss was longer, deeper, and Geralt pulled the lad flush against him, feeling the rabbit-fast beat of his heart against his chest, cupping the sweet face in one large hand as he tentatively offered his tongue and Jaskier parted beneath him with a sigh.

When he softened the kiss and leaned back it was with an insistent hardness pressing at his hip and blue eyes blown dark and hungry.

The slim body was melded against him, and Geralt's hand drifted down, thumbing at the high waistband. "Can I touch you?"

Jaskier swallowed, but nodded, and Geralt slid a hand between his legs, gently palming him.

The younger man's knees half-folded beneath him, but Geralt's reactions were as fast as ever, steadying Jaskier with a free hand at the small of his back before he could hit the ground, holding him close.

Head dropping forward to rest on Geralt's shoulder, Jaskier's hands grabbed too tight around the witcher's biceps as his body trembled. There was still no fear, though there was a tension to his jaw and the pulse jumped in his neck.

For a few minutes Geralt did little more than squeeze gently at Jaskier's prick through his clothes, cupping his balls or smoothing his palm along the length as Jaskier whined high in his throat, and eventually the desperate heart rate slowed a little, and Geralt let go, much to Jaskier's disapproving grumble.

"On the bed," he ordered gruffly, and Jaskier stumbled backwards to settle cautiously on the edge of the mattress. "Trousers off."

Jaskier hesitated for the slightest instant, but fumbled for the ties with shaking hands. Geralt crouched down before him, looking up into cornflower blue eyes, trying to minimise his bulk as best he could. "We don't have to do this."

"I want to," Jaskier said determinedly, then added, little pink tongue flicking across his lips, "Just nervous, that's all." He lifted his hips up to pull the trousers and smallclothes off, cock springing free, red and wet, to bounce against his shirt.

Geralt stood, meaning to undo his own shirt so Jaskier wasn't the only one half naked, but Jaskier's eyes went wide and he stopped. "Too much?"

Jaskier swallowed and nodded, looking away. Geralt shrugged, and let his hands drop. Instead, without asking for permission he settled on the bed, resting up against the wall with his legs splayed wide. "Come here."

Clumsy and cautious, Jaskier crawled closer, until Geralt's hand at his shoulder and bare hip turned him away to settle him in the vee of his legs, back pressed against Geralt's broad chest, body cradled between massive thighs. "Alright?"

Breathless, Jaskier nodded, and managed to squeak out a yes.

"Good," Geralt rumbled into his ear, keeping his voice quiet. "I'm going to touch you now. Tell me to stop, and I'll stop." And any hint of anything but arousal in his scent, and Geralt would stop too, but no sense in reminding the lad he was bedding a monster.

He ran a hand up Jaskier's bare leg, tracing the delicate skin of his thigh in long soothing strokes, but it wasn't long before Jaskier's slim hand covered his, and the younger man half turned in his grip so Geralt could see his profile. "Please, just - just touch me."

Humming his agreement, Geralt wrapped his hand around Jaskier's cock.

The bard let out a moan, head falling back and hips twitching helplessly. Geralt hushed him gently, lips brushing his ear, grip loose and easy as he slid it down the firm length, sweeping a thumb over the tip where precome gathered, spreading it down soft velvet skin as slim legs parted wider.

Curling his arm around Jaskier's chest, he delighted in the way it heaved against him; listened to the broken whimpers; inhaled the rich scent of Jaskier's arousal as he stroked his eager cock.

With a thin whine Jaskier caught his lip in his teeth, and Geralt lifted his free hand to tug it free, running his finger across the marred flesh. To his surprise, Jaskier ducked his head to catch the tips of his fingers in his mouth, and Geralt's cock jumped. Preoccupied with sucking fingers and fucking helplessly up into Geralt's fist, Jaskier didn't notice.

When his fingers were good and wet Geralt tugged his hand away with a pop and, panting, Jaskier buried his face in Geralt’s neck, body strung taut. Scarred fingers slick, Geralt dropped his hand to join the other between Jaskier’s legs to cup his balls, squeezing gently at the swell of perineum.

In an instant Jaskier was still beneath him, breath hot and wet where it pressed into the ridge of his neck, but Geralt could feet the quivering tension in his muscles and lifted his hands away, holding them awkwardly in midair. Jaskier didn't move.

"Jaskier," Geralt said, "Jaskier. Hey, c'mon." Slowly, he reached up to Jaskier's cheek, cupping the flushed skin. The bard startled at the touch, eyes snapping to Geralt's.

"Sorry," he said in a rush, "Sorry. I don't - please don't touch me there?"

There was a moment of silence as Geralt berated himself for pushing too hard, too fast, but then Jaskier's face fell and he looked away, shoulders curling in. "Sorry," he said again, voice small.

"Don't be sorry," Geralt growled, brushing his thumb gently over the cut of his cheekbone, soothing. "I tried something, it didn't work, you told me to stop. That's okay, that's good." He rested his free hand on Jaskier's belly. "Want me to keep going?"

Jaskier heaved in a breath, but then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, more. Please."

Geralt pressed a quick kiss to Jaskier's cheek, his own lips chill against the flushed skin. "Good," he said, sliding both hands between Jaskier's legs as Jaskier groaned and spread them wide, pressing his narrow thighs against the bulk of Geralt's muscle.

His erection had flagged a little, but before long the witcher's clever hands and steady pace had him trembling, gasping, bucking into his grip.

"Oh," Jaskier said, face pink and sweat-shiny, "Oh, oh, oh-"

"It's okay," Geralt soothed, "It's okay, Jaskier, you're doing so well."

He hooked his chin over Jaskier's shoulder, looking down at where his hands played the bard so skillfully, where every twist was met by a fresh whimper or a heave of the thin chest caught beneath his arms.

"Please," Jaskier sobbed, fingers digging into Geralt's thighs, scrabbling against the leather, "Please, Geralt, please!"

Pressing a kiss to Jaskier's neck, feeling the pulse leap under his lips, Geralt hauled the bard even closer, one arm holding him firm as his other hand tightened and stripped him faster. "Do you want to come?" A jerky nod and a pleading whimper from that straining throat, nothing but need and arousal and sweat in his scent. "You're so good, Jaskier. Come for me."

Jaskier _wailed_ , curling almost painfully in on himself around Geralt's arms, spilling in great streaks across his shirt and Geralt's sleeve and Geralt's gentle fist.

Eventually the tension flooded out, and Jaskier slumped limp and spent against him, eyes closed, body stricken with minute tremors.

Geralt let go of his cock, wiping his filthy hands unobtrusively on his own shirt, but the quivering of the thin body in front of him didn't lessen; if anything it grew worse. "Hey," he said, a little concerned.

There was a choked off sound, and Jaskier's hands flew from Geralt's thighs up to cover his face as trembling turned to tears.

He made no move to leave, though, no sign of pulling away, and Geralt wrapped his arms around him. Jaskier turned in his grip to bury his face in the broad chest, taking huge gulps of air between great hiccuping sobs.

Helpless and a little lost, Geralt just held him close as he keened and shook, patting his hair and rocking him a little.

Eventually he shuddered into silence, and lifted his head. "Thanks," he croaked, then offered a wet laugh. "Sorry. Probably not quite what you were expecting. Not what I planned, either."

Geralt hummed but didn't move. "It's fine."

Jaskier shuffled a little, then eased a hand between them. "Let me-"

"Mm, no, leave it."

"But-"

" _Jaskier_." As cathartic as it might have been for Jaskier, the crying had put a quite spectacular dampener on his arousal, though he'd honestly been half expecting the tears. "Hush, lad."

Jaskier still looked argumentative, but Geralt snagged the discarded shorts from the floor and handed them over and they went on without complaint. He didn't take off any of his own clothes, either, but he'd slept in worse situations - armour and blood and stony floors, for starters.

Wriggling to lie flat on the bed, Geralt put his heavy arms across the bard's shoulders to gently flatten him against his chest. With a half snort Jaskier surrendered.

*-*-*-*-*

Geralt wasn't sure what it was that had dragged him from his easy sleep.

He stirred, idly scratching his crotch where pre-come had left an irritating stickiness in his trousers, and turned over in the bed to wrap an arm around Jaskier's bare waist.

There was a sudden tension in the body curled in front of him, and then the blankets exploded in a wave of movement as Geralt frowned in lazy confusion.

Before he could understand how the scent of sex and satisfaction had suddenly become metallic fear, there was a pressure at his neck, the faintest buzz in his medallion, and Jaskier's heart rate was through the roof.

"What're y' doing?" His voice was rough and low with sleep. He could smell the steel of a dagger, the faint iron tang of his own blood; Jaskier's heaving breath was hot against his face, a forearm heavy across his chest as if to hold him still, bared teeth a sharp glint.

"Jask?"

There was no response, just more of that laboured breathing, fear-scent drenching the air.

The bard's pupils were constricted down to terrified pin pricks in bright, blazing blue; he probably couldn't see shit, not with the only light in the room the dim embers from the hastily lit fire.

Free arm flung wide, far off the bed, Geralt conjured a fistful of fire, holding it steady as Jaskier flinched, though the dagger stayed precisely where it was.

"Hey," he said, low and calm, as Jaskier's eyes flicked from the fire to his face. Somehow, impossibly, they went even wider, and he dropped the dagger as though it had burned him before scrambling back in horror.

"Geralt - fuck - I'm sorry, I just - I didn't realise it was you, there was just - _fuck_ -"

Geralt let Igni drop, plunging them back into near-darkness. "It's okay, hey, c'mon, come here."

When Jaskier didn't move, Geralt pushed away the blankets and reached out a hand. Jaskier flinched again when it made contact with his arm, but Geralt didn't let go, instead just drawing him closer, pulling him gently into a hug.

Tension thrumming through the bard's body, it took a few moments for him to relax, slumping into Geralt's grip as his free hand cupped the back of his head and held him tight.

"Fuck," Jaskier breathed into his neck. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"You're alright," Geralt said, "You're okay. No harm done." A hint of a scratch on his neck, perhaps, but that was nothing to a witcher, and it would be long gone by morning.

When the heaving breaths against his skin had died down to regular little puffs of air, Geralt pulled away. "Alright?"

Jaskier gave him a guilty, rueful grin. "Sorry."

Instead of tackling that Geralt leant over and picked up the dagger where it had tumbled off the bed, examining it. Sharp, potentially lethally so, but a pretty little thing, elegant silver filigree along the hilt, though the blade itself was steel. He wouldn't carry it himself, but it would suit Jaskier's slimmer hand. "I didn't know you slept with a dagger."

More guilt. "I, ah, found it. In the armoury."

"Hmm." Still, there hadn't been any more incidents with sharp things, not since that one awful threat on the second night, and he didn't want to push further.

"I can... put it back? If you want."

Geralt shook his head. "Keep it."

He held it out hilt first and Jaskier took it, tucking it somewhere down the side of the bed before slumping back down, half draped over Geralt's chest.

"Can we sleep a little longer?"

He looked small, and breakable, and nervous, and Geralt couldn't help but tug him closer and wrap his arm around the thin waist.

*-*-*-*-*

They woke up in time for breakfast, but only just, Geralt having to run to his own chambers for fresh clothes, and when they reached the kitchen were met with raised brows from all three witchers.

Jaskier went bright red under their scrutiny, from his ears all the way down to his chemise.

Entirely unaffected, Geralt just gleefully bared his teeth, and the subject quickly moved on.


	15. Lambert (again)

Jaskier didn't proposition Geralt again, at least not immediately, but he certainly seemed lighter, and his flirting with the other witchers - barring Vesemir, whose flatly unimpressed expression had put paid to the first hint of it - escalated. It seemed more of a game than anything, the bard's own way of sparring, freshly confident that it was just play, not an invitation that he'd not be able to turn down. Lambert was the usual recipient of Jaskier's sharp tongue or occasional light fingers, far quicker to rise to a taunt, while the other three looked on in indulgent amusement.

One morning, with Lambert on animal duty, the young witcher stomped back inside for breakfast, face twisted with irritation. Snow dusted his leather jerkin, spilling on the floor as he pulled it off, and he tossed it aside loudly enough to make Jaskier jump.

"What did you do?" he snapped at Geralt, who looked blank. "One of you wankers fucked with the pump by the barn, I had to haul all the damn water by hand and it's fucking cold out there."

He rounded on Jaskier, who flinched back in the face of his anger. "It's a stupid fucking prank."

"I didn't touch anything! I swear-"

"Lambert, leave him be, he didn't have anything to do with it." If Lambert would just take a second to check his senses, he'd realise Jaskier was confused and rapidly becoming scared, and that wouldn't do at all.

"Someone's fucked it, and it wasn't me!"

Vesemir stood, which halted Lambert in his tracks. "Lambert. Enough shouting. What's broken?"

Visibly biting back his irritation, Lambert explained the problem. A broken pump, now frozen solid, likely to stay that way until the spring thawed everything unless they could conjure up some solution. With a slightly calmer mindset, he admitted it probably wasn't something deliberate.

"There's probably some notes on it somewhere in the library," Vesemir sighed. "Breakfast, then I'll go and see what I can dig out."

"I could take a look," Jaskier ventured, and they looked at him in surprise. He squirmed a little under four yellow gazes, but added, "It was part of my studies, architecture and mathematics. I might know how to fix it."

Eventually Vesemir spoke. "It's cold out there. Dress warm."

Jaskier grinned. "Lambert can keep me warm."

*-*-*-*-*

By the time Jaskier was suitably bundled up to go out, Lambert had worked himself back into a snit, grumbling about nobles sticking their noses in, and having to stand outside and freeze his bollocks off while silly wolf pups played at fixing things.

Still, he stood watch as Jaskier fiddled with the pump, helping him lift the sturdy pipe from the ground to examine the mechanism deep below, obligingly casting Igni when the bard needed to unfreeze one section, and trotting inside for grease when sent, much to Geralt's bemusement as he passed him in the corridor.

It took nearly two hours, including the short break when Lambert had dragged the bard inside the barn and rubbed at frozen fingers with his own warm hands as Jaskier made exasperated noises about being _nearly done_ , but eventually Jaskier gave a satisfied grunt and leapt to his feet, giving the handle an experimental wiggle.

Water obediently sputtered out, then steadied as he pumped it again, crowing triumphantly.

Lambert looked at the bard stood over the pump, a smudge of dirt on his cheek and a proud look in his eyes. "Clever little shit, aren't you?"

Jaskier laughed, teeth white against cold-pinked cheeks and breath a puff of steam in the chill air, and Lambert clapped him on the back. "C'mon, let's get you inside before you freeze to death, little fox."

The hot springs were empty, the pools spilling into each other as cheerfully as they always did.

Jaskier's fingers were clumsy as he unfastened the heavy coat, and Lambert was naked before Jaskier had managed to take off his outer layer.

"Hurry up," Lambert taunted him from the pool, having taken a seat in the human-friendly pool.

"I'm trying!"

There was a splash, and Jaskier looked up to find Lambert, naked as the day he was born and dripping wet, heading his way. "Oh no," he said, at the sight of the wild grin on the witcher's face. "No no no-" He managed to lose the breeches, hopping inelegantly one on leg as he discarded them, but was still in his smalls and chemise when Lambert pounced, grabbing him around the waist as he yelped and squealed and laughed, pounding fruitlessly at the broad back beneath him. "You - you scoundrel! Put me _down_!"

There was a moment of silence as they both contemplated the pool in front of them. "You wouldn't dare," Jaskier breathed out.

Lambert paused for a second, letting Jaskier contemplate that he'd just challenged a witcher.

"I mean - oh, _fuck-_ " The bard trailed off into a shriek as with apparently minimal effort, Lambert launched him in a great arc into the pool, underclothes and all.

He surfaced, drenched and laughing, shaking his hair from his eyes.

Lambert, already back in the pool and lazing, grinned at him. "There's very little I wouldn't dare to do, sweetness."

Grumbling, still half breathless, Jaskier settled by his side, peeling the soaked clothes from his skin and dropping them over the edge to splat on the floor.

After a while Lambert could feel eyes still on him, and glanced over to where Jaskier was unsubtly examining him. He flexed his arm, and Jaskier blinked.

"Giant centipede," Lambert informed him, prodding at the two mirrored scars around his bicep. "Big bastard, massive mandibles, I swear it was in a dozen pieces before I was done."

Jaskier looked suitably impressed, leaning forward to inspect the deeply carved pink line.

But then, "I thought witchers killed monsters, not bugs."

"Hardly just a bug," Lambert scowled.

Before he could go on, Jaskier added, sounding far more unsure and tentative than he had done in weeks, "Is it only creatures? That witchers kill?"

Lambert opened his mouth to say something flippant, but the expression on Jaskier's face gave him pause. "Yes, and only if they're causing problems. We don't go after innocents, whatever they might look like."

"You wouldn't kill someone - some _thing_ , something - just for lying with a human?"

Lambert snorted, and flapped a hand to send a wave over to ripple against Jaskier's chest. "What the fuck did you get up to at Oxenfurt, little fox? But no, not if both parties were willing. That's just a bit of fun, no reason to kill anything. If we did, Eskel would run out of bedmates." He sobered, glancing at Jaskier's pale face and then back at the water where his hands made little whirlpools and eddies. "If it's rape, then that's different."

"Something that did no harm, just... lay with the wrong person. They wouldn't be killed? Only if it was unwanted?"

The same question, the same uncertainty. This wasn't just idle digging, searching for a song or fulfilling some curiosity. This spoke of something far deeper, and Lambert chose his words carefully.

"Not by a wolf witcher. Some schools will take any contract, the Vipers particularly, including humans. But most of us wouldn't take a contract on something that hadn't done harm."

Jaskier blinked, and nodded, and slipped from the bench to duck his head under the water, rubbing at his eyes as he surfaced. His scent was filled with a whole mess of things - fear-relief-anger-sadness - and Lambert didn't mention the slight hint of salt in the air.

Instead the witcher stood, canting his hip up out of the water to show off a gouged scar.

"Alright, now this was from a Kikimore queen." Jaskier looked pathetically grateful that he'd moved on, and not at all annoyed that Lambert hadn't asked him if he was alright, or tried to pat him awkwardly on the shoulder. "Must have been a decade ago, biggest I've ever seen. Practically ripped me in two."

"More bugs," Jaskier said dismissively, though Lambert couldn't miss the lingering twist of gratitude to his mouth and the wicked glint in his eye.

"Have you _seen_ a Kikimore? Twice the height of a man, all black armour and gore-"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure they're very intimidating," Jaskier drawled, waving a hand and settling back into the water.

Drawing in a breath to start a rebuke about how dare Jaskier belittle a witcher's work, how dare he be so dismissive even in play, the startling scent of happiness and faint arousal had Lambert shutting his mouth with a click of teeth.

Jaskier, seemingly freshly oblivious of the fact that Lambert was a witcher, and intimidating, and to be _feared_ , carried on.

"One or two scars are dashing," he said with a sniff, squirming lower in the water and letting his eyes drift lazily shut. "Any more than that and you start looking... worn."

"Worn, is it," Lambert growled, voice full of danger.

Jaskier blinked open one eye, a smile tugging at his cheeks. "Yes, Lambert, _worn_ , or is your hearing going as well?"

"Ooh, bard, I'm going to wound you..." He lunged, though at nothing like full speed; Jaskier, who had for all his teasing been poised to move, threw himself aside, going underwater for a second before surfacing, dancing eyes fixed on Lambert's approach.

"Geralt told me," he threw over the sound of splashes and growling, "Geralt told me you were nearly _sixty_ ," Lambert grabbed for him, deliberately slow enough that he could just weasel away but quick enough that he had to work for it. "Practically an old man!"

That, apparently, was the last of Lambert's self restraint. Jaskier went down with a yelp, before Lambert stood, squirming bard once again over his shoulder.

"You know, you might think this is punishment, but I do have a particularly nice view from here," Jaskier said conversationally, voice filled with mirth. "Wait, where are we going?"

Lambert patted his naked backside, and Jaskier kicked his legs a little as they left the nice warm pool, headed downhill. "Lambert? Lovely wolf, kind wolf, strong and noble witcher, you wouldn't harm an innocent little bard, would you?"

His words fell on deaf ears as Lambert marched them away from the entrance, all the way to the far end of the springs where they sank into the ground.

Once again Jaskier flew into a pool, this time still squealing as he surfaced. "Fucking fuck it's _cold_!"

Laughing at the tragic picture, Lambert eventually took pity and offered him a hand up and out of the chill pool. Jaskier didn't let go as they headed back to the warmer one, and Lambert tried very hard not to think about how nice it felt.

The rest of their bathing was calm, Jaskier sitting close enough that Lambert eventually wrapped an arm around him, which Jaskier promptly used as a pillow.

*-*-*-*-*

That evening, after Lambert had managed to gain a half dozen chore chits - most notably, emptying the chamber pots for the next week, though he'd at least managed to offload the morning animal feed - he stalked off to bed, grumbling under his breath. The weather was leaving all the witchers cooped up and cranky, Lambert most of all of them, and his temper was growing thin.

Jaskier, in fresh gaudy clothes after his dunking in the springs, watched him leave with bright eyes.

He barely lasted ten minutes, waiting until Geralt and Eskel were caught up in their game before slinking away. The two remaining witchers exchanged glances.

"That's either going to be disastrous or incredible," Eskel said, and Geralt hummed in response.

*-*-*-*-*

The knock on the door made Lambert jump, and he strode to open it, scowl already fixed on his face. He drew up short at the sight of Jaskier, grinning widely in the doorway, a far cry from the shadow he'd met months before.

"Hi," he said. "Can I come in?"

"Are you going to call me old again?" He wasn't quite in the mood for play, for all they'd had fun in the baths.

"I can't promise I won't."

Lambert stepped aside anyway, and Jaskier promptly dropped onto the bed, smoothing the blanket with an idle hand.

Wary, the witcher stood well back, arms crossed. "What do you want?"

Jaskier winced. "There was... a situation. In the kitchen. When you first got here?"

Wariness transformed into a scowl. "I didn't fucking _know_ , I-"

"Yes, yes, you didn't know, I didn't say - but I was thinking, would you want a do-over? Now I'm in my right mind." He offered a winning smile, only a little nervous around the edges.

There was a deep, pregnant silence. "You're insane," Lambert snapped out eventually, his voice surprisingly thin.

"A little harsh, I'd have gone for intriguing, maybe _complex_ , or even _easy_ if you were feeling unkind." Jaskier lounged back on the bed, bright clothes incongruous against the plain bedding, one leg braced on the bedframe in an obvious invitation.

Lambert spluttered for a minute before stomping closer. "You have six years of being some fuck toy, I practically force you into a blow job, and now you expect me to believe you want - that?"

Jaskier winced a little. "If it helps, everything with the collar on is really quite fuzzy?"

It didn't help. And yet, the sight of the younger man, relaxed and happy and smelling of nothing more than contentment and nerves and a faint, tempting edge of arousal, was enough to have Lambert's cock stirring traitorously in his breeches.

"How do I know you want this? No trickery or payment or whatever bullshit you've had going on up there." He flicked thick fingers at Jaskier's head before he could speak, and then added, "Remember witchers can tell when you're lying."

"You couldn't tell when Geralt blamed you for drinking the last of the honey wine," Jaskier pointed out.

"It doesn't work on witchers," Lambert said flatly, mentally noting to give Geralt a smack. Just because he'd been too black out drunk to remember, didn't make it fair.

Jaskier sobered. "Yes, Lambert. No trickery. No exchanges. Just what I want."

Promising. Lambert stared down at the bard sprawled on his bed. "And what is it, exactly, that you want?"

Oh, those pink cheeks and the ducked chin, there was the truth, no dissembling or false confidence, that was the sweet faced youth beneath the years of abuse and lies. Such a sweet little blush, and sharp white teeth digging into that plump lower lip. "I want to suck your cock. And maybe you suck mine, if you want."

Steady breathing, if a little shallow, and heart going a mile a minute from nerves, but truth, as far as he could tell. Lambert shrugged. "Alright then."

The smile on the lad's face was blinding, and he was instantly fumbling for the buttons to his doublet, hands trembling.

Lambert pushed his hands aside, gentle but firm, his own hands steady as a witcher's always were as he loosened the fastenings with care. The doublet slipped from his shoulders easily, and Lambert placed it neatly aside on the chair. He cared little for his own clothes - they were mostly heaped carelessly in the trunk - but he'd seen how much the lad valued rich fripperies like the doublet, like the elegantly embroidered chemise, both carefully adapted from the few human garments left in the keep. There was no way that he'd be careless with something that brought him so much happiness, however little he understood it - minor dunking notwithstanding.

Boots next, tugging Jaskier's legs off the bed and kneeling at his feet to unlace them, easing them off to line them neatly to one side. Above him, Jaskier's hands clenched white-knuckled in the sheets, as though he was keeping them from reaching out.

Lambert sat back on his heels to inspect the lad, down to chemise and breeches and stockings. He looked fragile, as though the wrong move might shatter him, and yet flushed with excitement, an encouraging tent to the front of his breeches, arousal steadily outweighing the woodfire scent of the room.

They stared at each other for a minute in silence, before Lambert stripped off his own shirt, tossing it carelessly aside. Jaskier's eyes lingered on the curve of his neck, on the bulge of his biceps, on the ridged columns of his abs. He was a good looking man, for a witcher, despite the scars, and he preened a little under Jaskier's gaze, more obvious now than he'd been in the baths.

Once he'd been thoroughly examined, Lambert leant forward, a hand on each of Jaskier's knees to spread them a little wider, easing the bulk of his shoulders between them until he could bury his face in Jaskier's groin, against the hardness there, inhaling the rich musk of his arousal where it was most potent.

There was a soft choking sound and he looked up with a hint of concern, but the lad looked well enough, cheeks redder than ever and biting his lip fit to draw blood, so he carried on. The shirt was loose, and went over Jaskier's head without leaving him too tousled; the breeches parted at the touch of his fingers, and he took the smallclothes and stockings with them, tugging them down to the floor as Jaskier lifted his hips and then settled back.

"Are you sure," Jaskier gasped out, naked and blushing pink down to his chest, "I was going to..."

Lambert grinned, sharp and wolfish, and slipped between slim thighs again, licking up one leg as Jaskier whined high in his throat, then biting hard enough for the lad to yelp. "You were going to...?"

"I was - ah! I was going - _Lambert!_ Fuck-" He descended into whimpers as Lambert wrapped his lips around the weeping head, suckling at the rich saltiness before diving in with enthusiasm, taking him deep enough to press his nose up against dark curls as Jaskier squirmed and moaned.

After he considered the bard suitably tormented, Lambert pulled away with an obscene pop, giving him a chance to get his breath back.

Just as it looked like Jaskier was about to speak, Lambert said, voice low and roughened a little from cock sucking, "You taste delicious."

Jaskier promptly went even redder, and took another minute to gather his thoughts as Lambert laughed quietly at him.

"I was _going_ ," Jaskier said, faux-irritably, "To suck your cock."

"Still time for that." Lambert rose easily to his feet, until his prick was level with Jaskier's chest. When he reached out to Jaskier's jaw, the skin was hot under his touch, a sheen of sweat gathering beneath his thumb as he stroked his cheek.

Tentatively, eyes glancing between Lambert's face and his cock, Jaskier eased himself forward, until he could duck his head and lick delicately at the witcher's prick as it bobbed before him.

Lambert didn't tug him forward, didn't do anything other than gently stroke his jaw, and eventually those sweet lips wrapped around him and sucked at the swollen head. "Yes," he grunted, "Fuck, Jaskier, you have such a pretty mouth." Jaskier hummed delightedly, bright eyes gazing up at him, soft and pleased.

There was no scent of fear, and Jaskier's hands lifted from the bedsheets to Lambert's thighs, fingers digging encouraging into the curve of his arse. Risking a little movement, Lambert rolled his hips just enough to sink deeper into Jaskier's mouth, and Jaskier moaned again, louder, beautifully muffled.

"So fucking good, fuck, Jaskier, so fucking pretty," and Lambert was almost lost in it before his stupid fucking brain remembered exactly _why_ Jaskier was so good at this, why he had no apparent gag reflex, and he yanked himself out of Jaskier's mouth with a gasp.

Wide blue eyes gazed up at him, trusting despite everything, no hint of fear, and Lambert looked away. "Sorry," he huffed out, "Just a sec."

Jaskier let go of his thighs and leaned back, looking suddenly anxious, licking spit and precome from his lips. "It's okay though?"

"Fucking brilliant."

There was a hint of nervousness in the air, but mostly just arousal; Jaskier's cock was still hard, spit slick and red between his thighs.

He thought for a second, forcing guilt and fucking _thinking_ out of his head, then spread a hand on Jaskier's chest. "Move back, yeah?"

Obedient, if a little confused, Jaskier shuffled back. Lambert frowned, judging distances for a second, then knelt on the bed to wrap his hands under Jaskier's arms and _pull_ , the bard yelping as he slid half way up the bed. "There."

"What-"

Upside down and grinning, Lambert clambered over his chest to come face to face with Jaskier's cock before looking back at him over his shoulder. "This way we both get fun. Suck, pretty little thing."

"Oh," Jaskier said, blinking up at where Lambert's cock hung in front of his face. "Yeah, good idea." He reached up and guided it into his mouth as Lambert did the same.

It was easier this way, easier to open his throat and take Jaskier all the way down again, sucking hard and bobbing his head, curling his tongue just right to make him whine around Lambert's cock in return. Hands wrapped around his thighs, pushing and pulling the witcher leisurely, enough that he wasn't worried about the delicate bard unintentionally choking on his cock, and he was happy to go where he was put, focussed on drawing out all those pretty whimpers and moans.

It didn't take long before Jaskier's hips were bucking up against Lambert's hands, barely able to twitch against his strong grip; Lambert grinned and took him deeper, drawing out a higher pitched whine, and Jaskier turned his head to let Lambert's cock slip from his mouth. "Oh, fuck, Lambert, I'm-"

Lambert took him down his throat, flexing around the sensitive head, and Jaskier cried out and came, cock swelling and pulsing through his orgasm as the witcher swallowed over and over until Jaskier whined and squirmed with sensitivity.

He left the softening cock fall from his lips, lifting himself effortlessly from the bed to lie next to Jaskier, whose chest was heaving and sweat-drenched.

"Alright there?" he asked, as Jaskier gasped and stared at the ceiling.

The bard huffed out a laugh and lazily rolled his head over, hair mussed with sweat turning the edges wavy, swollen lips curling up in a slow, easy smile. "Fucking brilliant."

Lambert snorted, then groaned as Jaskier's hand landed on his cock and gripped, just the right side of too tight, jerking him off until he spilled with a bitten off grunt across his own belly.

Once their breathing was settled, and Lambert had used a shirt to wipe away the worst of his mess, Jaskier settled a hand on Lambert's broad, naked chest. "Thanks, Lambert," he whispered.

"All forgiven?" Lambert asked, unexpectedly quiet. Unexpectedly anxious, though he hadn't known it before.

"Nothing to forgive." There was a soft press of lips to his cheek, and Jaskier slipped from the bed, stealing a candle to light his way back to his room. "Goodnight."

"Night, little fox."


	16. An Eighth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life and mental health are doing a number on me right now, but I am treasuring each and every one of your comments and kudos x

The library was quiet most days, unless one of the witchers had taken it upon himself to research some obscure monster or other.

It was with some surprise, then, that Jaskier opened the door to find Eskel perched on a padded bench, looking faintly nervous under the usual stoic witcher mask.

"Eskel! I'm sorry, am I disturbing you?"

"No, please - come in. I was actually waiting for you."

Jaskier's expressive face brightened. "Come to listen to my poetry? I've heard Vesemir a couple of times, he thinks I don't know when he's loitering down the end of the corridor."

"No, I - you write poetry?" He'd thought it just the lute, but Jaskier was turning out to be talented in a myriad of ways. He'd have to be, Eskel supposed, if he was telling the truth about having been a professor.

"Poetry, ballads, pieces for lute or arrangements for any number and arrangement of players and instruments, I'm fairly indiscriminate with my compositions." The bard didn't even bother to look modest.

A little taken aback by the skills, Eskel floundered for a minute before Jaskier plopped himself in the space beside him and curled up comfortably. Stockinged feet tucked under the witcher's wide thigh, boots discarded carelessly on the floor. "Was there something you wanted? If it wasn't to listen to my poetry, anyway."

Eskel tried very hard not to blush, but it felt like a ridiculous request for more reasons than he could count, many of which he'd started listing to himself as he'd waited for Jaskier to arrive. "The lute. You play it." Jaskier nodded, face patient and open. "I played a little. Once, a long time ago. People seemed less... threatened, by a witcher who played the lute, however badly. I..." And Eskel could feel the tips of his ears heating, but soldiered valiantly on. "Would you teach me? Just a little, mind. I'll never be much good, but it was nice."

He'd sat around the fire of a group of travellers, providing them protection even as they'd loathed him. One of the women had taken pity on him, sat far from the rest in shadowed darkness, and settled next to him with her lute and a mulish expression that suggested she would be playing the damn thing whatever anyone said.

Eskel had said nothing, gnawing mindlessly on his spitted rabbit as the music rang out, but her soaring voice and her clever fingers over the strings had been some small comfort, and when she'd turned to him and smiled as she played, unafraid of his scars, he'd felt like he might weep, or laugh, or shout to the stars. After a moment, she'd offered him the instrument and guided his hands into position, seemingly not intimidated by witcher scars and strength, despite the mutterings of the rest of her clan across the fire.

Her dark hair had fallen prettily across her shoulders, her eyes green and laughing but kind, and when she had approached him hours later where he'd laid his bedroll some small distance from the camp, he'd welcomed her into his bed without a second thought.

When their paths had diverged a month later it was with no small regret that Eskel had spurred his horse away.

That was a decade or more gone, and it seemed unlikely that she'd still remember an ugly scarred witcher, but his memories of the group's tolerance once he showed himself harmless were fond and warm.

"Of course I can teach you!" Jaskier seemed delighted, grin splitting his face in two. "I can help you sing, too, if you want."

Eskel shrugged, embarrassed into silence.

"But of course, we'll start with the lute, remind you of some of the basics. Then there's jigs I can teach you, you won't need much to have people dancing to that, and maybe folk songs too, get people singing along." Jaskier leapt from his chair as though burned, and he held up a hand to Eskel. "Wait right there, don't go anywhere, I'll be right back."

He took off at a run, still in stockinged feet, which must have been cold on the stone, leaving Eskel bemused in his wake. He skidded back in a few minutes later, breathless and clutching his lute. "You have it in the day, I'll have it after supper?"

True to his word, Jaskier did run through the basics, infinitely calm when Eskel's hands - perfectly suited to swords and witcher signs - fumbled on the strings. He'd seemed surprised at the callouses that formed so quickly on Eskel's fingers, and had stared jealously when Eskel explained witcher healing. "What I wouldn't have given to have that when I was learning," he'd said mournfully. Or on other occasions, Eskel thought but didn't say.

Once Eskel was happy that the lad didn't smell of fear, or gods damned oil, when they spent time alone together, he suggested they move from the library to his own bedroom to avoid disturbing Vesemir on his occasional forays into the library. Jaskier had agreed almost absent-mindedly, though Eskel had picked up the faint hint of tension the first time Jaskier knocked at his door, a faint sharpness to his scent and a tightness around his eyes.

He'd been careful not to touch the lad without warning, and found it easier to allow Jaskier to hand him the lute where he sat on the bed, rather than rising to take it from him. Jaskier had settled in the chair, but it seemed more out of practicality than any attempt at distancing himself - he was forever leaning forward to adjust a grip, or nodding along approvingly, or on one occasion burst into singing the folk song Eskel was attempting to play, with a voice so surprisingly lovely that Eskel had stopped playing in surprise. Jaskier had gone a little pink and apologised, and they'd gone back to the lesson, but Eskel hadn't forgotten it so quickly.

One afternoon, after he'd fumbled a chord for the third time, he put the lute down with a scowl and threw himself back on the bed, arms spread wide. Jaskier was quick to reassure him, as he always was, voice tinged with amusement.

"I'll never get it," Eskel said overdramatically, chancing a look at Jaskier with one half open eye. The bard always seemed to find such melodrama entertaining, and had once pertly informed Eskel that it felt very much like being back at Oxenfurt.

Jaskier shrugged. "You will, eventually. I'd suggest a larger lute; this one fits me but given your fingers you might find a large one easier."

Lifting his hand from the bed Eskel wriggled his fingers contemplatively, then said with a sly sideways glance, "Not had any complaints about the size before."

Jaskier groaned and covered his face. "Gods, this really is like being back at Oxenfurt." Still, there was no telltale seaweed misery or sharp fear cutting through the air, merely horrified tolerance and amusement and contentment, and Eskel grinned to himself a little before bracing himself for his next request.

While Jaskier had his face buried in his hands, where any judgement or perhaps upset would be hidden, Eskel blurted out, "Would you play for us? One evening in the common room, perhaps."

The bard looked up, eyes wide. "Would you mind? Would the others?"

Eskel propped himself up in the bed, very serious. "We'd like to hear you. Saves Vesemir sneaking around the library to hear you read poetry, or Geralt humming the handful of lines he's picked up from your late night playing. And Lambert... well, he'll shut up and listen if we tell him to."

A hint of colour in his cheeks, Jaskier eventually nodded, slow and sure. "It would be an honour to play for the Wolves of Kaer Morhen," he said, very seriously.

Eskel grinned, wide enough for his scar to pull his lip askew, and picked up the lute to have yet another attempt at the chord sequence, face determined.

Impulsively, Jaskier darted forward, one knee on the bed, and laid a kiss on Eskel's unscarred cheek as his fingers stuttered on the chord, before pulling back a little to stare into his yellow eyes.

For a long moment Eskel watched him back, inhaling the faint scent of arousal and spiced soap and human, and then let his eyes drop. "Normally if a pretty young man approached me like this I'd leap at the chance, but..."

"All you can think of is the barn, and the courtyard." Jaskier finished astutely, sitting back with a sigh.

"Sorry."

Jaskier shrugged, no hint of hurt in his scent or his face. "Lambert's always up for it. And Geralt, I think, once he's got over being all noble about saving me. Honestly, given all the stories, I can't believe how noble and kind you witchers are."

"Expected more baby eating?"

Jaskier pulled a face. "Expected more kidnapped kids. More ruthless murderers. Not... griffin feather quills and hot springs and a library."

"We only ever took kids when offered, or from the law of surprise. Even that was decades ago, now. And we aren't murderers. Or ruthless. Just efficient."

With his elbows resting on his knees and hands hung limp, Jaskier didn't meet his gaze, instead staring at the floor. The nervous tic of thumb over fingertips belied his unease, the scratch of it loud in the quiet sanctuary of Eskel's room. "My father always said it would just be a message to the witchers to get rid of me."

Eskel blinked. It was a common enough threat, but for some people it struck closer than others, and it might explain a few things. "How... how human are you, Jaskier?" He didn't put down the lute. Didn't move closer. Didn't even let his breathing change.

Curled in on himself as he sighed, Jaskier spoke to the floor. "Almost all. It's hardly anything. Makes my father something of a hypocrite, seeing as he has more of it than I do, but that's never stopped him." He clenched his jaw, then said quietly, "My, ah, my great grandfather was fae." The lad looked up at Eskel, his face twisted and uncertain and miserable. "Is that okay?"

"Of course." Eskel tried his best to look reassuring, and Jaskier seemed to unwind a little.

"When they realised my grandfather was a bastard, they..." He swallowed, and wide eyes darted away, tension flickering around his shoulders. "They paid a witcher to kill the father."

Eskel didn't move, but his gut clenched. At least it was long enough ago that it probably hadn't been him that took the contract. But knowing a witcher had killed an ancestor, and that same blood ran in his veins... Jaskier must have been so very scared, being dragged up the trail to Kaer Morhen.

"A few weeks later my great grandmother killed her husband over it. I'm told it was a big scandal in court, at the time," he said, miserably amused. "Most people didn't know about the affair, of course, or the fae thing. That truly would have ruined the family name for good, and we can't have that."

"So an eighth. You might have long life, but maybe not much else." And some natural resistance to cold, and hunger, and perhaps some other things he might not have discovered in his few free years. A tendency for light fingers and mischief, once he felt more comfortable.

Jaskier's head dropped down again, and he said very quietly, "I almost had a very long life of misery." His breath hitched, shoulders shuddering. "I don't know how the iron in the collar would have affected it, if I'd have just... kept on going."

Iron in the steel. Fae, unlike other monsters in their resistance to silver, but weak to the cold bite of iron. The realisation of that made Eskel puff up his cheeks, blowing air out noisily. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

"Good thing we got it off you."

Jaskier snorted. "Yeah."

"Can I tell the others?"

"If you think they won't kill me." It sounded mostly like a joke, but enough edge to it that Eskel frowned.

"Jaskier. If any of them thought to kill you over an eighth of fae blood, when you've done nothing to harm any one of us, nor anyone else, I'll stand in front of them myself. You understand?"

"Yeah." Jaskier grinned up through his fringe. "Thanks, Eskel."

*-*-*-*-*

The lute came with them to dinner, resting against the table leg, and the other three witchers eyed it with curiosity. Jaskier dropped down next to Geralt with his usual enthusiasm, taking the bread when offered and passing it over to Lambert as Vesemir dished up the meal, something perfectly brown and crisp.

Jaskier sniffed the air, and his eyebrows shot up. "Fish? Is this fresh?"

From across the table, Lambert grinned proudly. "Caught it myself."

"You didn't catch shit," Geralt grumbled, kicking him under the table. "He blew a hole in the ice, chucked a bomb in and scooped up whatever floated out. The ice only gets thin enough near spring."

"But it's fresh? Not salted?" They could practically see the lad's mouth watering. Food at the keep, as on the path, was generally heavy on easily grown vegetables and beans; most of the meat they'd eaten over winter was taken from the livestock in the barn, or on a few occasions venison brought down by one of the witchers. Fish was harder over the winter, and other than the first couple of weeks before the lake had frozen over it had all been salted or dried.

"Fresh today," Vesemir confirmed, Lambert too preoccupied by kicking Geralt back, and Jaskier moaned a little. When Geralt passed him a plate he held it up and inhaled deeply.

"This is amazing. Ugh, I can't remember the last time I had fresh fish. And the sauce! Gods, you witchers are a marvel."

Once the food was shared round they dug in with alacrity, eating in silence punctuated only by appreciative groans. Once Jaskier had slowed down and started on his second portion, he moved on to questioning Lambert about his fishing technique, barely giving the witcher time to snatch bites between questions.

Eventually Lambert scowled and put down his fork. "Do you ever shut up? It's like you've got three years of talking saved up and have to use it all at once."

Unperturbed, Jaskier grinned. "Nope, I was always like this." Still, he left Lambert alone to finish his meal.

Plates scraped clean, Lambert on washing duty, they retired to the common room. Jaskier slung his lute over his shoulder and took his place to one side of the fireplace, with a perfect view of all the witchers, just enough firelight to light his profile artistically without stepping away from the heat.

Fumbling with the strings for a minute, he twisted the pegs until the tuning was precisely right. Just long enough, coincidentally, for Lambert to take his seat, and for the room to have settled into silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire.

The first strum of his lute fell into that silence, and Jaskier looked around at four pairs of intensely golden witcher eyes, barely able to suppress the bubbling joy in his chest.

He opened his mouth, threw back his head proudly, and sang.


	17. Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sad this fic is over, you've all been so very lovely <3 Your comments have encouraged me every step of the way, thank you so much for all the support.
> 
> Jaskier isn't fixed, but he's getting there, and I like to think it won't be long before he's up on stage, taking over the continent the way he was meant to do.

A hand slapped across the bedclothes, the thin mid-afternoon light catching at the dark hairs across the knuckles. "Geralt! You're not listening!"

Geralt grumbled but put down the bestiary of Redanian subspecies. He'd had a vague notion that he might travel south through Redania, this year. Via Lettenhove. No particular reason.

"I'm listening, bard. But I've no ear for music, you know that."

Still, he listened as Jaskier hummed one little series of notes, then another, little difference between them to his uncultured ear. Still, one of them called a little more. "The second?"

Jaskier beamed at him, chemise not quite tucked back in his trousers and slightly lopsided across his chest where the ties had come undone unevenly. "I'd hoped you'd say that."

"Wait." Geralt tilted his head to one side, contemplating. "I've heard that before."

Jaskier went a little pink, which Geralt couldn't help but find adorable. "Before I realized how damn good your Witcher hearing is, I was composing at all hours, all round the keep. Caught you humming it."

"Oh. Well, it's nice. Memorable." He could imagine it being stomped in a tavern, late at night when the drinks were flowing and humans were up for something bold to chase away the monsters in the creeping dark.

"Good." Jaskier looked suddenly fierce. "I'll have the whole damn Continent singing the praises of witchers, if it kills me."

Geralt's chest, more prone this winter to sudden lurches, warmed in that way he was becoming used to.

"I have no doubt you will," he said, lifting a hand from his lap to brush along Jaskier's cheek where the bard sprawled against the headboard, lute in hand, notebook before him, ink and quill balanced haphazardly on the bedside table.

"Do you know where you'll go?"

Something flickered across Jaskier's face, too quickly for Geralt to identify it, and he pulled back a little to turn the pages of the notebook, Geralt's hand falling to the bed. "Oxenfurt, I suppose. I might still have friends there. And then... I don't know." He offered a grin, though it was thin and there wasn't much life to it. "Maybe I can be the travelling bard I aspired to be."

Geralt hummed, that small warmth in his chest suddenly going cold and lifeless, and the two of them sat in silence

After a while Jaskier strummed a little, though the tune seemed to have fallen by the wayside in favour of a new refrain that felt like sadness, that felt like aching. He wasn't sure how Jaskier could do that, make a thing of wood and sheep guts pull feelings from thin air like mages twisted chaos to do their bidding.

"That's different," he ventured, and Jaskier gave him a half smile, though there was a hint of sadness in the air below the scent of dried sweat and sex.

Half under his breath, but loud enough for witcher ears, Jaskier sang, "My love, she falls behind me, she stumbles in the snow. I do not turn to look at her, for onwards I must go. But I find that I am wanting, I find I am alone, and now I find her love for me was all I had of home." He paused. "A maudlin, miserable minor key, my dear witcher, and yet that is the way of a poet."

Geralt pulled a face, and caught Jaskier's hand away from the neck of the lute. "Enough misery, sing me something pretty."

"Something pretty, hmm?" Something gleamed in Jaskier's eyes, and Geralt heaved a put-upon sigh as the lute was carefully placed on the floor and nudged safely under the bed.

"I thought it was witchers that were supposed to have stamina, not little bards with their clever hands and pretty mouths."

"Another tumble hardly counts as stamina, merely enthusiasm. And you like how I sing in bed."

"Insatiable little thing," Geralt growled, catching Jaskier about the shoulders and bearing him carefully down to the bed as Jaskier grinned.

Insatiable was something of an exaggeration, but as time went on their tumbles were becoming more regular, and if it wasn't for Geralt's witcher healing there would be a wealth of evidence of the bard's attentions scattered across his pale neck.

"Honestly, Geralt, do you even see yourself? Anyone who can't see how gorgeous you are is truly blind to beauty."

Geralt hummed, and covered Jaskier's mouth with his own before the praise became too lyrical, the lad catching at his dark shirt to tug it up and over his head with barely an interruption of the kiss.

A broad knee between his thighs, and Jaskier parted his legs with a moan, wanton and willing. "Yes," he breathed into Geralt's mouth as the witcher ground against him, Jaskier's cock hardening against his thigh and his own pressed into the jut of hipbone, "Oh, Geralt, yes, fuck, you beautiful man."

Jaskier's hair curled up and away from his brow where sweat had dampened it, and Geralt smoothed it back to gentle him and pepper his face with delicate kisses, cheeks and brow and sweet little pert nose, before descending once again on his lips.

When they paused for breath, Geralt lifted himself up and away to roll easily onto the empty side of the bed where he'd been sat before, flinging one hand on Jaskier's chest as though to keep him from leaving, though there was no weight to it. "I thought we could try fucking, if you want," he offered, face gentle and open as he stared at Jaskier across the pillow.

Jaskier blinked. "Sometimes I forget how very blunt you can be." After a little while he added, turning away from Geralt's gaze to stare at the ceiling, voice measured and cautious, "What precisely do you mean by fucking?"

"Your cock in my arse, if you want it." Geralt shrugged. "Don't have to. But I'd like it, and you might too."

"Oh," Jaskier said, eyes wide and surprised as he turned to look at Geralt, lounging across the bedsheets like some great wolf, smug and satisfied after a hunt. "Um."

Geralt snorted. "First time I think I've managed to shut you up in months."

"Oh, hush. Not every day one receives the offer of a lifetime."

"You don't have to," Geralt said, shrugging. "But the offer's there."

The thrum of Jaskier's heart had leapt into a gallop, and Geralt rolled over to curl himself around the bard, hand slipping from his chest to tuck around his waist. When Jaskier's quick breaths had calmed, the witcher spoke quietly in his ear. "Had you taken a cock, before you... before?"

"Once," Jaskier whispered back. His face twisted a little.

"Ah." Geralt nuzzled his neck. "The first time can be difficult, but it's usually very enjoyable." Jaskier was still tense in his arms, and Geralt pressed more kisses to his skin. "I enjoy it. And done the right way it doesn't hurt at all."

"You swear it?"

"I swear it, Jaskier."

Jaskier turned in his arms, catching his mouth for a quick kiss. "Promise you'll tell me if it hurts. Or if you don't like it."

"Of course. And we can stop any time you want."

Jaskier's eyes searched his for a long moment, and then the bard nodded decisively. "You have oil?"

Safely tucked in his bedside drawer ever since Jaskier had first joined him in the bed, though he'd used it more than once since then for a particularly hedonistic wank. He handed it over, and Jaskier's hands shook. Geralt pressed a kiss to the knuckles, and settled himself face down on the bed, tugging off his trousers and shorts to drop them on the floor.

Jaskier didn't move, and Geralt cracked an eyelid to look up at him. "I can prepare myself, if that's easier?"

The reaction was immediate - "No! No, I - I want to. That's what - partners do, right?" He sounded a little uncertain, and Geralt reached behind him to catch his hand and rub his thumb reassuringly across his knuckles. Jaskier clung to him.

"Yes. A good partner makes sure you're good and open and ready. You don't have to do it, but one of us does."

Determined and suitably appeased, Jaskier nodded and let go of his hand. There was the pop of a cork seal, the slick sound of oiled fingers moving together, and the rich scent of the sweet oil.

A hand pressed against the thick muscle of one arsecheek, spreading him wider, and Geralt could hear broken breathing from behind him.

"Right," Jaskier said shakily, and oiled fingertips brushed over him. Geralt felt himself tighten, an instinctive flinch, but relaxed when Jaskier's fingers just froze there. "Fuck, okay."

The first breech was tight - it had been years, after all - but Jaskier was slow, and patient, and waited for him to relax around the oiled intrusion before sliding a little deeper, easing in and out with fragile care.

"Okay?"

Geralt hummed back an agreement, and Jaskier huffed out something that sounded like a shaky laugh. "Don't fall asleep on me, wolf."

"'m not," Geralt slurred back, burying his face deeper in the pillow, shifting his hips. "Curl it a little, towards the front. There's - ah, yes!" He grunted his pleasure as Jaskier followed his instructions. "Fuck, yes, Jaskier."

"It's okay?"

"Yes, more, another finger, more."

The bard was no less cautious with the second finger, and Geralt had to force himself still, rather than buck up against it and drive it deeper. He didn't want any hint of pain to scare Jaskier off, even if with anyone else he'd be ready to take a cock by now.

He found that spot inside again, and rubbed gently, and Geralt couldn't help a low groan, hips twitching, and behind him Jaskier cursed under his breath.

"More," he hissed out, and Jaskier obliged him. The fit was a little tight, but they'd taken it slow and there was more oil than he'd ever bothered using before, and Geralt let himself drift in the pleasure.

When three fingers were slipping in and out easily, Jaskier buried them deep and stopped, breathing hard. "You okay? Geralt, tell me if you're alright?"

He squirmed a little, luxuriating in the stretch. "Yeah, yes, fucking good. Ready."

"Sure?"

Geralt growled, low and threatening, and Jaskier huffed out a laugh, a little less shaky this time, and pulled his fingers out.

It was an unpleasant emptiness, but Jaskier didn't take long, the slick sound of oil making it obvious what he was doing, and before long there were knees settling between his thighs, a whisper of hot breath on his back. No more than that, though, and Geralt reached blindly back to catch at Jaskier's leg. There was a faint tang of fear in the air, and he could hear Jaskier's heart racing.

"Jaskier?"

"Can I see you? Please, I can't - I need to see you."

It was easy to rise, and turn, and lay Jaskier down on his back, looking up at him with eyes that were too blue, too wide, and Geralt kissed him thoroughly until the scent of fear was just a memory.

With the slim waist caught between his knees, Geralt lifted up, one hand on Jaskier's cock, the other resting on Jaskier's chest, ostensibly for balance but mostly so he could feel the instant his heart did anything untoward.

The first slide of Jaskier's slick cock against him, blunt and hot, made the younger man moan, though he held himself perfectly still, thighs twitching and trembling with the effort. Geralt held himself poised at the brink, and then dropped to let the head press inside, spreading him as wide as Jaskier's fingers had done. They both moaned then, Geralt watching Jaskier's face, pink cheeked and bright eyed. A little tense, but mostly just awestruck. Beautiful, beautiful man.

Little rolls of his hips drove the oiled length deeper each time, until his arse met the welcome slope of Jaskier's legs. The bard's hands fluttered between them, touching his thighs and hips and snatching away again just as quickly, until Geralt caught the hands in his and curled them into the meat of his hips.

"Alright?" he rumbled, stroking his thumbs across the back of Jaskier's knuckles.

"Gods, yes," Jaskier panted out, licking his lips. "Gods, Geralt, you feel - amazing."

Geralt offered up a slow, wolfish smile, and without any strain lifted himself up from Jaskier's legs, then sank back down again, a slow flex of powerful thighs.

With a whimper Jaskier closed his eyes, only to open them a second later, seemingly unwilling to miss a single moment, fingers clenching and unclenching around Geralt's hips.

The stretch around Jaskier's cock was glorious, and Geralt kept a steady pace, riding Jaskier as the bard whimpered beneath him.

"Fuck, yes," Geralt growled, finding the perfect angle to send sparks flying behind his eyes. "That feels so good, Jaskier, so fucking good."

He wouldn't normally be so vocal, but he'd learned in the few weeks they'd been fucking that it helped ground Jaskier, helped reassure him that everyone involved was having a damn good time, and the way the lad's eyes widened with every curse was a reward in itself.

"You - hnngh, _fuck_ \- you can move, Jask," he groaned out, and paused at the top of his arc, teasing both of them.

Jaskier's eyes were blown huge, bright blue spun down to almost nothing, and sharp white teeth held his lip captive. "You sure?"

"Yeah, fuck, yes, Jaskier, fuck me."

Jaskier's breath caught in his throat before he rolled his hips in a deep, sweet thrust, and Geralt let his head fall forward, a low, pleased rumble drifting from his chest.

Setting his hips at just the right angle, Jaskier's cock drove across that bundle of nerves that made him want to clench and buck and roar, though he restrained himself to huffed curses and slow, measured, rolls of his hips.

"Oh," Jaskier said, eyes wide as he fucked up into the witcher's willing, open body, "Oh, Geralt, oh, _fuck_!"

It didn't take much longer, and Jaskier pulled Geralt close enough to kiss again, mouth going slack as his hips stuttered and bucked once, twice, and then stilled with a moan.

Geralt held him close as Jaskier panted, and the bard slid a hand between them to jerk the witcher's cock with clumsy fingers until he spilled with a groan, burying his face in Jaskier's shoulder.

His discarded shirt was enough for a quick cleanup before Geralt collapsed, still tingling with aftershocks of pleasure, to pull Jaskier close, letting the slimmer man drape over his chest.

"Thank you," Jaskier whispered into his collar bone.

There wasn't much Geralt could say to that, so he contented himself with scratching idly through Jaskier's hair, letting their heart rates return to normal.

After a while something occurred to Geralt, and he snorted. "Not many out there that can say they buggered the white wolf."

Jaskier laughed at that too, a snuffle into Geralt's skin. His heart was still pounding, and his hand fisted in the bedsheets. "I can't believe we're going to leave in a few days and then I'll never see you again." He burrowed a little closer. "I wish I could come with you."

He wanted the same. Had wanted it since the first time he'd looked at the bard and scented only contentment and happiness, since the first time he'd told Jaskier about the witchers who once roamed this keep and called it home, since the first time he'd looked at Jaskier and seen a man, not a frightened, wounded boy.

Reluctantly, he shook his head. "The path is hard, and men wouldn't look on you fondly for running with a witcher."

Jaskier wouldn't be dissuaded, and Geralt could hear the thrumming of his pulse pick up again. "Easier than being stuck with a collar and an owner. Besides, think of all the songs I could write!"

"Don't be foolish, bard." Geralt's voice came out sharper than he'd intended, and he felt a brief pang of guilt.

Unimpressed by Geralt's ire Jaskier pushed away from the witcher's broad chest, staring down with a determined jut to his jaw, though their legs still tangled together. "I'm not being foolish, I'm serious! I want to travel with you, see the world! I can look after myself now that fucking collar's gone."

With the low afternoon sun catching at his hair, a glint in his eyes, he looked fierce enough to take on the world, with or without a witcher. "You've seen me train. I'm not as good as you, but I can hold my own. You know what I am. You _know_ I'm strong enough to travel with you. Give me... four months. You had me here for four months, give me the same to travel with you. If you hate it, I'll leave, and you'll never hear from me again."

He stared up at the bard. Ardent defiance in his expression; the lean bulk of his shoulders; the healed burn across his neck. There was no visible hint of his fae ancestry, though his eyes were perhaps a little too bright, and the medallion sang when he felt truly threatened, though they hadn't quite pinned down exactly what would happen if pushed. Didn't seem worth the trauma to find out. Perhaps they'd have time and space to test it, after all.

He'd forced himself to hold back the request, to not ask Jaskier for something he could never expect a reasonable man to grant. But if it was the bard asking, after everything, then that was different.

A nervous, happy heat building in his chest, Geralt huffed out a heavy, put-upon sigh. Jaskier lifted at the swell of his chest, but the determined expression didn't lighten. "I get the feeling if I try and leave you, you'll just follow me anyway."

"Damn right."

"In that case..." Geralt let a smile creep across his face. "I would be honoured to have you travel with me."

"Really?" Jaskier's face lit up, and Geralt laughed and pulled him close, pressing kisses to his open, gleeful mouth.

"Really."

" _Yes!_ "

*-*-*-*-*

They'd taken the trail down together, four witchers and a bard striding through the last of the winter snow, one pointing out a tumble of rocks with a wry expression.

At the base of the mountain, the path forked, one route turning west through Kaedwen proper towards Redania, the other south to the rest of the Continent. Faces sombre, the group separated, three witchers on one side, a witcher and a slim human stood to the other.

Jaskier stepped forward, chin out and back straight, even as a hint of salt drifted through the spring air. Lambert was first, the sharp-edged witcher softening under Jaskier's gaze.

Fingers wrapped around massive biceps, Jaskier kissed him gently on the cheek and looked him in the eyes. "Speak well of me to Aiden, so he tolerates me when he joins us next winter."

The tips of Lambert's ears promptly went bright red, but nodded. "Of course, little fox. I'll tell him how you fixed the pump, and how prettily you yelp when I throw you in the cold end of the springs."

Jaskier slapped his arm, laughing, pressed a kiss to his other cheek as Lambert hauled him into a hug. When the steel trap of Lambert's arms released him, the bard swallowed hard and whirled away to Eskel, whose face was stoic, though the unhappy twitch of his mouth said he was dissatisfied with the separation.

"Eskel."

"Jaskier."

"Noble, kind, _good_ Eskel. Be well, griffin slayer, and I will see you in the autumn."

A kiss to both of Eskel's cheeks, and a hug too. Eskel whispered, low enough that the other witchers could barely have heard it, "Be good to my wolf, little fox."

"Of course." Face soft, Jaskier pulled away, and turned to the final witcher of their group.

"Vesemir. Thank you, for welcoming me into your keep. And for helping raise such good men."

Vesemir brushed the gratitude away, holding out a hand to clasp wrists with Jaskier. The bard's hand looked very small on the vast leather of Vesemir's forearm. "I'll see you next year, lad."

Jaskier stepped back, to let Geralt do his own round of farewells. Solemn and solid, and he didn't miss the flared nostrils as the witchers took a last deep scent of each other.

"Right," he said as Geralt stepped away, taking hold of Roach's bridle. "I'll see you soon. Bye." He swallowed hard, and Geralt wrapped an arm around his shoulders to turn him away.

"C'mon, Jaskier. Time to go."

One last little wave, and on a bright spring day with the last of the snow melting to slush around their feet, a witcher, a horse and a bard set off down their path, ready for all the death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak the world could throw at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've enjoyed reading please consider leaving a comment before heading on to the (much shorter) sequel / missing scene!


End file.
